If Control Is Not Enough
by Kindre Turnany
Summary: Stiles doesn't talk about the darkness around his heart. He doesn't talk about the nogitsune that possessed him or the young man he killed. He doesn't talk about the night he said he didn't want to be a monster like Peter Hale. He doesn't talk about how Peter said he was lying. Or, at least, he didn't when he was human.
1. I Did This

**If Control Is Not Enough**

 _Main Pairing:_ Stiles/Peter

 _Characters:_ Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, Malia Tate, Noah Stilinski

 _Side Pairings:_ past Stydia, past Stalia, minor Scalia

 _Side Characters:_ Henry Tate, Mason Hewitt, Braeden, Theo Raeken, Liam Dunbar, Chris Argent, Jordan Parrish, Melissa McCall, Corey Bryant, Conrad Fenris, offscreen Derek Hale, offscreen Deaton

 _Warnings:_ violence, gore, language, murder, minor character death, gun violence, supernatural illnesses, memory alteration, age difference

 _Additional Tags:_ werewolf Stiles, alpha Stiles, post-nogitsune Stiles, canon compliant, post-canon, implied/referenced sex, Scott is a good friend, anchors, pack feels, friendship, family, control, reminiscing, cohabitation, living together, Peter cooks, Christmas, New Year's Eve, first full moon, wolfsbane, mountain ash, eventual happy ending

 **Chapter One: I Did This**

 _Tuesday, December 16, 2014_

Stiles tapped his long fingers against the dash of Lydia's car and squinted his eyes against the setting sun even though it hurt to look at.

"How soon after we get into town do you think we meet the monster of the week?" he asked with a sidelong glance at Lydia. Their monsters tended to last months, but Stiles didn't dictate the terminology.

"I'm sure they'll give you five minutes to catch up with your dad first," Lydia answered with a shorter glance, opting to squint at the road against the low sun. Her hair shone like fire in its light.

As far as Stiles knew, Beacon Hills had been villain-free since his last visit over summer break. They'd been through quiet periods before. Eventually, something always went bump in the night. It hardly seemed reasonable to expect the bump to wait for winter break, but then Stiles and Lydia had both finished their finals early this semester to go home before the term was technically up. He couldn't decide if that made a monster tonight more or less likely. Whichever was worst, he decided.

"Five bucks says we don't finish dinner," Stiles said, not because he wanted something to fight, but because he could hardly imagine his home town without monsters anymore. The nemeton drew in peaceful and violent creatures alike. Stiles hoped he was wrong. He was hungry.

Lydia sighed. Stiles got the feeling she'd be giving him a _look_ if she weren't driving. She had seen as many monsters as he, though she understood them later. Stiles figured everything balanced out since she was a monster herself, a banshee who could predict death and fight with her screams.

Dark clouds rolled in from behind the car. They'd traveled with the storm for over a day now, and in under an hour, they would ride into Beacon Hills with it, like the Wild Hunt come back to claim the town that fought it off.

Lydia's eyes flickered to the rear-view mirror and back to the road ahead. She had the sun visor pulled down even though it couldn't help with the sun touching the horizon.

Stiles picked at the texture of the dash and tried not to ask what he really wanted to. Lydia had told him to stop, but it picked at his brain more persistently than his fingers did the dash. He switched back to tapping.

He grimaced, unable to hold back any longer. "I know it's been a while for us, but I still think they're going to ask."

"If it's been so long, you shouldn't mind talking about it." She kept her eyes on the road.

"Do _you_ want to talk about it?"

"It's not their business," she reminded him.

"What if they try to get us back together?"

"They won't."

"But what if they do?"

"We've seen them multiple times since we broke up, Stiles."

"Scott's been asking me about dates more often recently. I think he's worried about me."

"Tell him to mind his own business."

"What if he doesn't?"

"Stiles."

"Don't 'Stiles' me. Scott's going to be like, 'I thought you were in love with her since third grade, Stiles. What happened to your eternal love, Stiles? Do you need me to talk to her, Stiles?'"

"Scott won't say your name that much."

"That's not the point!"

"A third grade crush is not the same thing as true love, and Scott knows that."

"Yeah, well, it evolved over time. That's still not the point."

Lydia's shoulders fell at last. "If Scott tries to talk with me, you know I will shut him down, or are you worried what _you_ will do if he offers to help get us back together?"

"Eleven years is a long time," Stiles mumbled.

"Do you think we made a mistake?"

"No."

"Then why are you worried?"

"You know I'll always love you, just not..."

"We couldn't make it work. That's not a fault of insufficient love, Stiles. It's just how the world works sometimes."

Thunder punctuated her sentence. The storm would catch them before they made it to town.

"I wasn't going to say, 'not enough.'" Thunder drowned out Stiles' voice.

When the storm's crashing faded, Lydia added, "We could tell them why we broke up."

"Scott will just give us tips for how he makes it work," Stiles grumbled.

"When I agreed to drive you across the country, you promised you wouldn't be weird."

"This isn't weird. You've seen me weird." They'd known each other for years. Lydia had seen him beyond weird.

Lydia sighed. She'd done that a lot over the course of their cross-country road trip.

Stiles plowed ahead. "Do you know how happy Scott gets when he thinks I have a date? I've stopped telling him about new friends altogether to avoid the forlorn puppy mood he falls into when he realizes I'm still single."

"Is that why I have to listen to you pine after baristas, librarians, random passing strangers...?"

"Maybe." Stiles pouted.

"If Scott tries to ask about how we broke up or to get us back together, which he won't, just distract him by asking about Malia."

"I think he'll catch on."

"Then ask him for help with something else."

"I've spent days in a car with you, and you're a bastion of unnecessary information. What more could I need?"

Lydia nearly took her hands off the wheel in her frustration. "I memorize far more useful topics than _you."_

"My point is what could I ask Scott but not you?"

"Ask him about animals."

Scott was studying to become a veterinarian. Stiles cared very little for animals though. He neither had nor wanted nor was allowed a pet in his dorm. He didn't rescue strays or feed birds in the park. He'd flipped off a bird last month for shitting on him, but he didn't think that counted.

"I don't think you're helping," Stiles told Lydia.

"No, you're just refusing to be helped. Do the same with Scott, and if you're lucky, he'll never speak to you again."

"Don't be angry, Lydia."

"Don't pout. You know it won't help."

"I guess if Scott starts to ask about my love life, I can always come onto him. He's always avoided addressing that in the past."

"See, you can always create a distraction. It's an innate talent."

"Excuse you, it's a hard-earned skill that I developed over many years of underhandedness and outright lies."

Lydia chuckled, and Stiles knew he was forgiven. He'd only used a little of the car trip to worry at her, really. Just a tiny portion each day near the end of their drive when her nerves were already worn down...

"I didn't mean to belittle your diabolical accomplishments," Lydia said. "I won't—" she broke off with a scream and slammed on the brakes.

The tires screeched. A man stood dark in the road silhouetted against the last sliver of sunlight. His eyes glowed red. The sound of his roar drowned out the screech of tires but not the crash of the car hitting his body. The hood crunched inward. The werewolf flew back. The airbag punched Stiles in the face and blocked his view of the man landing.

Stiles fumbled at his seatbelt and grabbed his backpack and metal bat from the floor behind his seat. He scrambled out of the car.

"Are you okay?" he asked, though he slipped the bag onto his back and held the bat ready, just in case.

The alpha roared.

With the sun gone and the headlights pointed off the road, the alpha stood in shadow relieved only by his glowing eyes.

Stiles said, "I have healing herbs if you need them."

Lydia reached Stiles and dug through the backpack.

Stiles added, "Also not-healing herbs, but I'd rather—"

The wolf charged.

Lydia flung a handful of ground wolfsbane in his face and pulled Stiles back as the werewolf stumbled nearer the light.

"I guess you don't want healing," Stiles said because he wasn't sure how to shut his mouth with his nerves going haywire.

The alpha looked like he needed healing whether he wanted it or not. Black veins stood out against his skin. His eyes were wide with more than rage and twitched manically in all directions. By their own red glow, Stiles spotted black veins pulsing even through the alpha's eyeballs.

And then, past the shadows, contorted expression, and supernatural features, Stiles recognized the alpha.

"Dr. Fenris?"

Fenris tried to lunge again. Lydia screamed. The force of her voice pushed him back. Fenris pressed forward. Several paces away, they reached a stalemate, but Lydia would have to breathe soon.

Stiles dug out the mountain ash from his bag and threw down a circle to trap Fenris, who crashed against the barrier. Stiles felt the impact like tremors after an earthquake.

"What happened to you?" Stiles asked. "Do you need help?"

Scott and Stiles first met Fenris while searching for a cure to make Scott human again. The last Stiles knew of Fenris was when the Anuk-ite drove him mad with fear. Fenris had still been human then, and he had killed as many supernaturals as he could, namely those in Eichen House.

Now, Fenris seemed similarly frenzied, not attacking because he wanted to but because he had been driven beyond what he could handle consciously. If they were lucky, talking, offering to help, might calm him down.

"Is it poison?" Lydia asked as she eyed Fenris' veins. "I've never heard of disease that affects werewolves."

Stiles had small batches of the nine herbs separated out in his bag. He held one up. "Would this help?"

Fenris growled.

"Dude, you know us, and we can tell something's wrong. We'd rather help than fight," Stiles said.

"I don't think he can help himself." Lydia pointed to his mouth.

Fenris' saliva had begun to foam. It was marbled with inky black ichor. He smashed against the ash barrier. The ground shook. Stiles stumbled to his knees. With the next impact, the barrier broke.

Lydia screamed too late.

Fenris' teeth—an alpha's teeth—sank into Stiles' neck.

Lydia's scream tore Fenris from Stiles, ripping away the flesh between his teeth. Hot blood poured down Stiles' torso. His chest was tight with pain. His heart struggled to beat against the darkness squeezing tight around it. Stiles stood. He lifted his bat.

"Stiles," Lydia said, a warning, a question, a plea.

Fenris roared, but Stiles was too newly-bitten to have turned yet. The alpha's roar couldn't force Stiles to shift, fight, or run. Stiles swung his bat against the Fenris' face. It connected with a sickening crunch.

Stiles hadn't wanted the bite. He turned it down years ago.

Fenris pushed himself back up. Stiles swung again.

If Stiles had wanted to be a werewolf, he would be. Peter and Scott had offered him the bite. Derek wouldn't have denied him. Stiles never asked for the bite. He didn't want it.

Fenris set his hand against the ground to push himself up. Stiles smashed the bat against the back of his head to keep him down.

Stiles survived as a human for years. He got out of Beacon Hills. He went to college. He was set to apply to the FBI Academy after he graduated and had already completed two semester-long internships. Then he got bitten by a sad, scared man driven out of control by fear and disease. Stiles couldn't bring himself to care how Fenris was bitten, how he became an alpha. He only cared that Fenris had bitten _him._

Stiles smashed his bat down again, though Fenris hadn't shown any sign of getting back up.

"Stiles," Lydia whispered.

He kicked Fenris over and crushed his teeth. He swung his bat until, instead of a crunch, he heard a squelch.

"He's dead, Stiles. Please stop."

Stiles dropped the bat. He thought there was something he should say. Something he should do. Something he shouldn't have done.

He looked at Fenris' smashed-in face and tried to feel regret. Stiles was supposed to help people. He wanted to help people. He wanted to be better than this.

But he wasn't. The dead man's blood covered his bat. It had sprayed out over Stiles to coat his face, chest, arms, even his legs.

He thought he should be short of breath or in tears. This was everything he never wanted to be. The darkness he'd put around his heart clawed out more space in him. Stiles felt it choking him, but his breathing stayed even, at odds with the wild struggling of his heart.

"I did this." Stiles dropped to his knees.

This wasn't the first time he had killed, but the other had been half-accident. Stiles had dropped scaffolding on the wendigo chimera Donovan, and a pipe impaled him. A long time later, Scott told Stiles the lie Theo gave about how Stiles killed Donovan, the lie that made Scott believe Stiles had gone too far.

It had looked like this.

Lydia knelt beside him. Her voice was breathlessly thin when she said, "You weren't just destroying his teeth to keep them from identifying him."

Stiles opened his mouth but couldn't say anything.

Lydia pressed something against the side of his neck where the alpha bit him. She said, "The blood is red, not black. That's good."

When Stiles spoke, his voice shook, "Is Scott in town yet?"

"Not until tomorrow. Malia will be in on Thursday." She paused. "I should call your dad."

"What about Liam?" He should be in town. Corey and Theo too, though as chimeras, Stiles thought they'd be less helpful. Peter was around somewhere, but he was a born wolf, not bitten. And an asshole.

"There's nothing he can do. The change takes time, right? Nothing will happen tonight." She looked back at Fenris. "We should take care of... everything else first."

They couldn't just leave the body. Forensic evidence would point back to them once it was found. The man had been hit by Lydia's car, taken a bite out of Stiles' neck, and been beaten to death with Stiles' bat. Stiles was covered in both their blood.

"Parrish could burn him," Stiles said.

"Deaton may be able to find what's wrong with him," Lydia said. "He bit you. What if he transmitted whatever was making him sick too?"

"The longer the body survives, the higher the chance of it being found. I can't..." He took in a slow breath. "I can't claim self defense for this. It wouldn't hold up in court, not the way I... I..." He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. "We have to destroy the evidence."

"It _was_ self defense," Lydia said.

"Does it look like self defense?" Stiles asked. "It doesn't to me. It won't to a jury."

"You won't face a jury," Lydia assured him. "Your dad is the sheriff, and we can destroy the body after Deaton performs an autopsy as easily as before."

Stiles ran his hands over his face. His skin was slick with blood.

Lydia pulled her phone from her purse and dialed. She set her free hand against Stiles' arm to calm him as she waited. All it did was bloody her palm.

"Can anyone hear us?" she asked. "This is... private." She listened a moment and said, "I hit a werewolf with my car. He bit Stiles, and Stiles killed him. We need help." She was on the phone a while longer, saying where they were and answering a barrage of questions.

Stiles wiped his hands off on the back of his jeans and slipped his own phone from his pocket. He peeled off a wad of napkins Lydia had used to stop the blood flow and used the front-facing camera to study the bite. He took a picture, not sure if he would want record of the wound or not. The flash made the already gruesome wound garish.

There was a gouge missing from his neck. Scrape marks along the edge marked the path of the alpha's teeth. It was too much of a bloodied mess to clearly see the muscle and sinew laid bare. It moved when he swallowed. Stiles barely felt it.

"I think I'm in shock," he said. He was supposed to feel it.

Lydia petted his hair and promised to make everything alright.

"He bit me," Stiles spat. "I never wanted the bite."  
"I know," Lydia said. He'd never told her outright, but if he'd wanted it, all he would have had to do was ask. Everyone _had_ to know he didn't want it.

"I didn't..." Stiles looked at the blood on his hands and arms, the streaks left on his phone despite his attempts to wipe his hands. "I think I'm angry, but I don't feel it fully. I didn't think about what I was doing. I just did it."

"I killed Valack," Lydia reminded him. Stiles had been nearby, though at a safe distance when it happened. She hadn't been herself. "You're not the only one."

"You couldn't have done anything else," Stiles insisted.

"Neither could you. Mountain ash didn't hold him, and he was trying to kill you, not bite you."

"We could have tried the herbs."

"How?"

"I had him down on the ground. We could have given him the herbs before he got up."

"Could we?" Lydia frowned. "He was an alpha, Stiles. He might have healed faster than we could move. We might have died in trying to save him instead of ourselves."

It was kind of Lydia to talk like this was something they did together. Maybe, given her power, it was something she let him do, but Stiles had done it himself.

"Look at him," Stiles ordered. "I didn't just kill him. I didn't just stop him from killing us." Stiles struggled to breathe, finally losing the false composure of shock. "I obliterated his face."

Lydia froze, staring at Stiles, not at what he'd done. Stiles felt it then, the heat behind his eyes. They were glowing like a transformed wolf's. He lifted a blood-smeared hand to see his claws.

Gently, Lydia pushed his hand back down out of sight. With her other hand, she turned his head to look her in the eye.

She said, "It must be faster because you're an alpha."

"I don't have an anchor. I don't have a plan." Stiles tried to dim his eyes, but they only blazed stronger. He couldn't make the claws retract.

"You're shifted, but you haven't attacked me," Lydia said. "You're still in control."

"For how long?" Stiles growled. The vibration rumbled through his chest and throat.

"You can't hurt me," Lydia said.

"I could hurt my dad."

"Parrish and Deaton are coming with him. I think the group of us can handle one baby werewolf, even if his eyes are red." Lydia sounded calmer than she smelled.

"I can't risk it," Stiles snarled. As fangs, his teeth fit together differently when he clenched them.

"The wolfsbane you brought. Could any of it put you to sleep?" Lydia asked, grabbing Stiles' backpack off the street.

Stiles flinched back from the bag, from the scent of poison wafting out of it.

"Stiles, focus. Can any of this knock you out?"

"Green baggie." He bit his lip but stopped when his fang pierced it. "Make sure I'm away from humans when I wake up."

"I will," Lydia promised. She tossed the wolfsbane in his face.

Stiles sneezed and stumbled back with a snarl. "I'm still awake."

He grabbed the rest of the wolfsbane from Lydia's hand and tossed it aside with a roar. Blood welled on her fingers where his claws had raked a path across her skin.

"I have to leave," Stiles realized, staring at her blood.

"Wait." Lydia stretched her injured hand toward him. "You... your phone. It'll die. Take your battery pack."

"Who would I call?"

"Scott will be here tomorrow, and he can help."

"I'm not one of his betas," Stiles growled, surprised at his own anger.

"A pack can have more than one alpha. We've seen it before." She reached into Stiles' bag.

Lydia lifted her hand from the bag and hurled ash at him instead of a battery pack. Stiles roared, but his voice couldn't displace ash. He hurled himself forward and crashed against the barrier. It gave slightly when he hit it. Lightning flashed overhead. Thunder crashed.

"Let me go!" he screamed. His voice was deep and filled with inhuman vibration, thunder's echo ripped from his throat.

"We can figure this out together, Stiles. I just need you to breathe slowly. I'll breathe with you, okay?"

"I don't want to breathe with you," he rumbled.

She was afraid, for him, not of him. He smelled it on her skin. He heart beat faster than it would at rest, but slow enough that she was still in control. Stiles' heartbeat wasn't nearly so measured.

"It will be okay, Stiles." She was still trying to calm him.

Stiles rammed his fist against the barrier with a snarl. Mountain ash hadn't held the alpha. Scott had broken through it once, too. Werewolves weren't supposed to be able to touch mountain ash, but Stiles hadn't touched it the first time he broke an ash line. He was transforming fast, but maybe it wasn't complete yet.

His fingers were still clawed when he held his hands in front of him, palms down. His hands trembled. He growled at them, but that couldn't make them stop.

Lydia reached over the ash to grasp his hands. He could smell her blood. Its scent mixed with the blood already on his hand.

"Let me go," he ordered before she could try to calm him again. "Send Parrish after me to keep me from hurting anyone, but let me go."

Lydia let her hands fall. "No."

Stiles screamed and hurled himself against the ash. "I can't hurt my dad. I already hurt you." He crashed against the barrier.

"Deaton needs to make sure you aren't sick too," Lydia insisted.

Stiles snarled.

Lydia raised an eyebrow. "You've already said that."

Stiles snapped his teeth at her.

"What can you bite from in there?"

Stiles held up his hands again, palms facing the ash. He focused on the ash, tuning Lydia out. Mountain ash circled him entirely, resting in a thin line against the asphalt at the edge of the road. It was barely more than dust and worked because Lydia believed it would. Stiles had controlled it before. He could do it again.

Stiles separated his hands. The ash line broke.

He ran into the night. Behind him, Lydia screamed his name. Farther out, he heard the first hint of a siren as his father neared.


	2. Who You Are

I think the first chapter is the shortest in the entire story, and I won't lie, it's 100% because I liked the drama of ending the chapter when Stiles ran away. I debated including this in the first chapter instead of making it the second

 **Chapter Two: Who You Are**

 _Tuesday, December 16, 2014_

Stiles ran until he couldn't hear the police siren or Lydia's voice. Then he ran some more. These were the woods east of town. The trees were sparser here, with more room between and less underbrush. As he headed west, they grew denser and, eventually, would thin out again nearer town.

He pulled his phone out but dropped it when the screen blinded him. Stiles blinked his vision back and found his phone. He squinted before turning it on this time. There was no signal out here. He turned off the location tracking before his dad could use it to find him.

Rain began to fall in light drops. Despite the date, California wasn't cold enough to freeze the rain into snow.

To the west, Peter howled.

Stiles had heard Peter howl before, but he wasn't sure that should be enough to recognize it.

He bared his teeth in Peter's direction. Why was Peter out? Stiles felt certain the howl was meant for him. How could he know that? Did Peter mean to help him or kill him for his power?

The thought made Stiles growl. He itched to fight, to hunt, to... Stiles squeezed his eyes shut against completing that thought.

Peter liked Stiles. Not as much as he liked Malia, and not as much as a normal person liked their friends, but he liked Stiles. For Peter, that was a lot. This was what he'd wanted: for Stiles to turn.

Peter had wanted Stiles as a beta. He had tried to kill Scott for being an alpha.

If Peter tried to kill him, Stiles could fight back now. If Peter did kill Stiles, Malia would never forgive him. The pack would destroy him. Again. Stiles didn't think Peter would come back this time.

If Stiles died, he wouldn't have to deal with what he was becoming or what he'd done.

Peter howled again.

Stiles howled. By the sound, Peter wasn't far out of town. Stiles ran toward him. They had to howl twice more before they found each other. As soon as Peter saw Stiles, he sat down, unaware or unbothered by the wet grass.

Confused, Stiles tilted his head to study Peter. The rain had remained light so far, but Peter's short hair dripped down over his forehead. His grey v-neck clung to his torso. Mud speckled his boots, but lightly. He watched Stiles expectantly.

Stiles walked over to sit beside him. Peter's heartbeat was steady. He smelled... it wasn't calm, but it wasn't agitated. Stiles watched him a moment, trying to sort out his scent. Only when he focused on Peter's smirk did Stiles realize he was excited.

"I'd have killed him for you," Peter said conversationally.

Stiles growled. If Peter had done it, he would be an alpha again.

Peter was undeterred. "I mean if you didn't want to. Are you happy this way?"

"You know I didn't want this."

Peter tilted his head. "Do I?"

"You may not have believed me, but you know I made a choice," Stiles snarled, leaning forward into Peter's space.

Peter didn't pull back. "You can't be human again."

"Did Lydia call you?" Stiles couldn't think of how Peter would have known to find him otherwise.

Peter nodded. "She told me several disturbing things. Fenris was an alpha, and he was sick. Wolfsbane and mountain ash couldn't stop either of you. You're an alpha now."

"Why would she tell you?"

Peter laughed, actually laughed. Stiles almost latched his teeth into Peter's throat to shut him up.

"You know Scott's pups can't help you," Peter said.

"Pups?"

"They're hardly wolves."

"You are such a dick."

Peter shrugged. "Why did you answer me?"

Stiles dug his claws into the dirt. "I need help."

"You became an alpha moments after being bitten by a dying werewolf. You need more than help."

Stiles scowled.

"But you haven't attacked me," Peter continued, "and you're fully coherent, if anxious and hostile."

Stiles held up his claws. "I can't make them go away."

Peter didn't spare a glance for Stiles hands and focused on his eyes. "I noticed."

Stiles growled, "How do I do it?"

"There are several ways. The best is an anchor."

"I know about anchors."

"Then imagine yours." Peter's smirk deepened.

Stiles resisted the urge to claw Peter's face off, but only after reaching his claws nearly to Peter's hairline.

Peter sighed. "I assume your father should do."

Stiles pulled back. Peter hadn't flinched. His heartbeat hadn't changed.

Stiles asked, "Do you believe I won't hurt you or that you're so strong I can't?"

"Can't it be both? Focus on your anchor."

Stiles bared his teeth but pulled back. He closed his eyes and thought of his dad, how much he loved him. How Stiles would do anything for him. How he must be worried sick about Stiles now. How Stiles couldn't go near him for fear of hurting him.

"I don't feel calmer," Stiles said.

Worrying about hurting his dad left him too anxious. He needed someone else.

Stiles loved his mother, but thinking about her, he remembered watching her die. He remembered her attacking him on the roof of the hospital. It hadn't been her, but he also remembered the ghost that lived with his father after the Wild Hunt took Stiles. Clinging to Claudia Stilinski's memory had caused too much harm.

Peter finally shed his smugness for a frown. "It needs to be something that reminds you of who you are, not what you can do. Become who you are, and you'll be able to do what you please."

"That's different than I've heard it described before." Stiles had always heard that an anchor kept you human.

"No doubt," Peter sneered. "You're a werewolf now, Stiles. Clinging to anything else will only weaken you."

"I don't care about power," Stiles said.

Peter let out a long-suffering sigh. "If you don't want it, there are ways to pass the alpha spark on. It's how older alphas retire before they're killed."

"I'm not giving it to you."

"Did I say me?"

"You didn't have to."

Peter shook his head and sighed again. "Then you'll need a powerful anchor, so who are you, Stiles?"

"I don't know how to answer something that vague." He dug his claws back into the dirt to keep them away from Peter's face.

"You didn't go to college to find yourself. You already had a plan. Maybe it's who you are; maybe it's who you want to be."

School and a job wasn't enough to be an anchor.

Stiles asked, "Your anchor's anger, right?"

"I can teach you to use anger, but I don't think that's what you want." Peter's eyes glowed a cold blue.

"That doesn't seem calming."

"Calm isn't our goal. When the ocean rages around you, your goal isn't to calm the storm because you simply can't. Your goal is to keep your ship upright without getting lost at sea." Peter repositioned himself to lean against the trunk of the tree he'd been sitting beside.

Stiles asked, "What if there's something wrong with me? What if I can't anchor myself?"

"There _is_ something wrong with you. A newly turned wolf is not meant to be an alpha. It's too much power." Peter leaned forward, eyes still shining blue, though Stiles couldn't imagine what else he had to say. "You've had power before. The control you already have is nigh impossible. You should be mad with your own strength, but we're only having a slightly less sarcastic chat than usual."

Stiles remembered helping Malia during the full moon. She had nearly mauled him, but he refused to leave. He became her anchor. That wasn't what he told her though. He had described being the nogitsune, feeling as the nogitsune. It reveled in its power, in its control over others. Stiles had told Malia what control meant to him, what it became after feeling the nogistune's control as his own.

"Control is overrated," he muttered.

"You're not going to anchor yourself thinking like that," Peter noted.

Maybe Stiles wasn't going to anchor himself.

Peter leaned back again and watched Stiles pick at the soggy ground. "Who do you want to be?" he asked again. "What do you want to do with your life?"

"I want to help people, to save people," Stiles said.

"Like you saved Lydia?"

Stiles nodded, unsure how Peter knew about that.

"Focus on how you felt when you knew you had saved her," Peter suggested.

"It felt good," Stiles said, though it was an understatement.

It had been relief at knowing she was finally safe, pride at having gotten her out, and completion as their pack became whole again.

Only when it faded, did Stiles realize how much pressure had built up inside him tonight. He lifted his hand to study short, human fingernails caked with blood and mud. His tongue ran across dull, human teeth. The burning in his eyes had stopped, and he knew they were brown.

Power still churned in his chest, ready to burst forth at a moment's notice. He thought it should be quieter now.

Peter said, "Good. My next suggestion was going to be pain, but I wasn't sure I'd keep the hand I hurt you with."

Stiles furrowed his brow. Peter didn't seem like he was lying, but neither did he seem afraid of Stiles.

"Not every idle thought is strong enough for a chemosignal," Peter said. "You'll smell the most significant emotion at a given moment, not subtle nuances behind every sentence. I'm calm now. Thinking about a situation in which I might be less calm won't necessarily change that."

"But you knew I was confused even though I think I was mostly relieved."

"Because you told me with your face."

Stiles snorted. "I'm not the first person you taught, am I?" Confidence was an aspect of Peter's personality, but in this case, it hadn't been unwarranted.

"I had a family once, Stiles. I didn't linger at the fringes like I do with Scott's pack. I even helped with the children." He frowned. "Maybe Talia thought forgetting my child would be easier if I had others to care for."

Stiles wasn't sure how to respond. He couldn't remember if Peter had ever _shared_ with him, discounting his questionably accurate story about Derek's first love.

Peter sighed. "You're not done learning, and just because you're anchored now doesn't mean you will be, come the full moon. We're approaching the new moon as it is, which likely helped to make tonight easier than it might have been."

"Which is why I'll continue to need you, I assume." Stiles narrowed his eyes. "It doesn't explain why you want to be sure I come to you for help. Scott will be here soon."

"Scott isn't your alpha."

Stiles opened his mouth to argue but couldn't. Eventually, he managed, "We've seen that packs can have more than one alpha." Deucalion's alpha pack had been a special case, but Scott's pack could be too.

"A stable pack has one alpha and at least three betas. Even the alpha pack had a single leader, the alpha of alphas." Peter said the title mockingly.

"So?"

"So will you submit to Scott?"

Stiles growled. Power spiked in him a tense moment before he could smooth it out. He wanted to help people, not maul Peter.

"You need better control before you even could submit," Peter noted. "An alpha wants to lead."

"Tell me what you get out of this, or I'll take my chances with Scott," Stiles ordered.

"My motivations are complex."

"I've got all night."

Peter frowned, though the effect was marred by water dripping off his nose. He must have brought up his family to manipulate Stiles. Whatever he said now would be different, unless he thought of a plausible lie in the next few seconds. Stiles wouldn't put it past him.

Peter sighed. "First is Malia, obviously. You're her friend. She would want me to help and be angry if I didn't."

Stiles nodded, "Which covers tonight. Tomorrow, when I have options, you're off the hook."

"If I take the opportunity to keep my distance, I won't find out how you resisted the wolfsbane and broke the ash barrier. Maybe you just hadn't finished turning, but maybe it was something more. Lydia said the alpha did the same." Peter studied Stiles like he could find those answers if he looked hard enough.

"You want both advantages for yourself," Stiles guessed.

"Naturally. And if I can be harmed by whatever affected the alpha, I'd like to learn of it sooner rather than later." Peter said it much too casually, like he already suspected he would be protected.

"You plan on using me as an excuse to hide away so you _can't_ be infected," Stiles accused.

"So?"

"So you're an asshole."

Peter shrugged.

Stiles frowned. "Everything you said sounds reasonable."

"You don't believe me?"

"I don't think you lied," Stiles clarified. "I think there's more you didn't tell me."

"I've always liked you, Stiles," Peter noted. "I offered you the bite. I let you say no. I helped separate you from the nogitsune. I saved you from the Ghost Riders at least twice."

Stiles squinted at Peter suspiciously. "There's something more," he muttered, more to himself than Peter.

"There's always more," Peter said. "The question is which piece satisfies you, not where we reach the end."

"Then what is it I need to hear?" Stiles asked.

"That I want your power even if indirectly." Peter flashed a wolfish grin. "I'm alone, but I could never join Scott's pack. Now, there's a new alpha. We would _both_ be stronger."

"I'm not building a pack," Stiles snapped. "I'm with Scott, with all my friends."

Peter shrugged. "I wasn't going to mention it, remember?"

"I don't believe you'd be content as anyone's beta," Stiles said.

"I wouldn't. Joining you would be a temporary measure."

"Meaning?"

Peter raised an eyebrow.

Stiles growled.

Peter rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't kill you, if that's what you're worried about."

He stood, and Stiles found himself surging to his feet to keep the omega from looming over him.

"That will pass," Peter said. "I'm sure you remember how unbearable my nephew was as a young alpha."

"More tolerable than you," Stiles grumbled, surprised again at the rumble in his voice.

"Less murderous, you mean." Peter smelled amused.

Stiles liked Peter mocking him no more than standing over him. Peter stood at ease beside Stiles, practically languid in the darkness.

Stiles said, "Scott didn't act different when he became alpha."

"Scott is a different kind of alpha." Peter paused. "His power also increased gradually rather than all at once as it would for most alphas." He motioned for Stiles to follow. "We can use Derek's loft. No humans about for you to maul, but it does have a shower."

The alpha's blood had covered Stiles' clothes and skin, and his own had spilled over his torso from the wound in his neck. His run through the woods had added dirt without managing to obscure the blood. The rain fell too gently to wash it all away, instead leaving red and brown streaks over his skin and clothes. Stiles wondered how terrible he must look and whether Peter truly hadn't cared or had such perfect self-control that Stiles would never know better.

Stiles said, "Yeah, thanks. For the rest too."

"I have an idea how you can help me until you're fit for human company."

Stiles caught his arm. "How?" His voice vibrated with distrust.

Peter laughed, much harsher a sound than last time. "You're the smart one, Stiles. Figure it out."

Stiles growled, but Peter was unperturbed.

They ran through the woods. Clouds obscured the waning moon, but Stiles saw clearly in the night, even without his eyes burning red. The air here smelled earthy and pure. Stiles breathed deeply, savoring it as wind and rain swept through his hair. Stiles could almost imagine the wind blowing the blood away as the water cleansed the skin left behind. It was silly, but he felt like nothing could catch him. He laughed. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so free.

Once, he had thought werewolves' need to run was a problem. When Liam ran through town naked on the full moon, Stiles had lectured him and wondered how Liam could be so stupid. Stiles understood now. Not throwing off his clothes in the street, but running as a wolf.

They reached Peter's car, and Stiles almost asked if they could run the rest of the way despite the weather. Peter smirked like he could hear the unformed words, and Stiles clamped his teeth around them. Peter pulled a towel from the trunk and laid it over the passenger seat before letting Stiles in.

"Try not to touch anything," Peter ordered. He set another towel against Stiles' front and buckled his seatbelt outside it.

Stiles bared his teeth but didn't argue.

Once they were on the road, Peter said, "You should get signal here if you want to call your father."

"I... yeah."

After scrubbing his palms over the towel on his lap, Stiles tugged his phone from his pocket and traced a finger along the edge of the case. He was afraid to call. It made him feel small and weak. He thought it should make him feel human. Thunder boomed above them, and the rain finally began to pick up.

"How different did you feel after becoming an alpha?" Stiles asked.

Peter shrugged.

"Not even an exaggerated motivational story?" Stiles prodded.

"I was in a persistent vegetative state. While I could move when shifted, I was never fully present. The alpha's power was enough to heal me. How do you think I felt?" Peter spat the question through a snarl. His grip tightened on the wheel. Spikes of agitation burst through the calm amusement of his scent. It was stronger now, in a confined space without the rain washing it away.

What Peter described was miraculous. He should have felt _alive_ after years of hell trapped in his own mind, driven mad with pain and grief. But he had killed his niece for it.

Peter had returned to Derek's pack after Lydia revived him. He had stayed by Cora while she was sick. He loved Malia and had risked his life for her more than once. Peter cared about family, in his own way. He must have cared for Laura.

"Is that why you killed your nurse?" Stiles asked.

Peter's heart was steady, and his scent had smoothed out. He was too calm. He had to be controlling his physical responses now. Whatever he claimed could be a lie, and Stiles would have no way to tell.

"Call your father," was all Peter said.

Stiles did. He held his breath.

When Noah Stilinski answered, his voice was urgent. "Stiles, where are you?"

"I'm safe. I'm with Peter." Stiles bit his lip too hard again. "I'm sorry."

"We'll take care of everything, son. Just come home."

"I can't, not until I know I won't hurt you."

"Lydia doesn't think you're going to attack anyone."

"I have to be sure," Stiles insisted. "You saw what I did to Fenris, didn't you?"

"He attacked you."

"What if someone tries to mug me, and I rip them to pieces? What if I snap at someone for bumping into me?"

"Your friends can help."

"I'm sure they will, but they'll help me away from humans."

"I thought you hated Peter." Noah had changed tactics, which meant he couldn't argue Stiles' point.

"Dad, I need a werewolf right now, even better, one who has been an alpha. I need _Peter_ right now. He's already helping. We just need more time."

Noah was quiet a moment. "Call me every day."

"I will."

"Let your friends do as much as they can. Don't rely too much on Peter Hale."

"I promise. I'll be home soon, Dad, just not yet."

"I love you, son."

"Love you too, Dad." Stiles hung up. "That went better than I expected."

"No doubt he's relieved you weren't the one who died," Peter said.

Stiles ignored him. He texted Scott, **I was bitten.**

Scott replied immediately. **Lydia called. I'm on my way.**

He must have decided to drive in the night rather than wait for morning.

Stiles texted Malia next, but she had heard from Lydia already too. He had been in the forest for a while. That gave Lydia plenty of time to contact everyone, arrange everything.

"Did Lydia tell you to have me stay with you?" Stiles asked.

"She promised to stay away since her healing factor is less than ours," Peter said. "She seemed to think you'd demand it of her."

Stiles texted Lydia, **Is there anyone you haven't told?**

 **I spoke to everyone who is in town or returning for break.** After a moment, she texted again, **Including Argent.**

 **It's too ominous when you say it like that,** Stiles complained. Chris Argent was an ally. He wouldn't be hunting Stiles.

 **He's worried about how Fenris was acting. And about you. He's working with Deaton now.**

Stiles wasn't sure what to say, so he texted someone he knew wasn't in town or coming home soon: Derek. **I was bitten tonight.**

 **Are you ok?** Derek replied after a few moments, which was miraculous in itself since he'd agreed to carry a phone less than a year ago.

 **I think so.**

 **Who bit you?**

 **Fenris.** Stiles hesitated, but sent another text saying, **He can't bite anyone else.**

Derek called.

"'Sup, Der?" Stiles kept his voice hollowly cheerful.

Peter looked over and raised an eyebrow.

"Is he dead?" Derek demanded.

"Yeah," Stiles confirmed. "I did it."

"Shit," Derek breathed.

"Peter's helping me handle it," Stiles said.

"Peter."

"If _you_ have any helpful tips, I'm all ears. I switched over from eyes and thumbs when you decided texting wasn't enough."

"Don't let Peter kill you."

"Well, there go all my plans." Stiles sighed.

With false hurt in his voice, Peter asked, "Why does it feel like no one trusts me?"

"Because no one trusts you," Stiles answered.

Derek asked, "Do you need me to come back?"

"No, man, do your own thing. Scott's on his way as we speak, and he's a little closer than you anyway."

"Call if you need anything," Derek said.

"I was kind of hoping you'd know a way to stop overreacting to everything. I keep growling at people. I snapped at Lydia. With my teeth. Like a dog."

"Practice," Derek said.

"Somehow, I forgot that you were the most eloquent Hale."

"Find your anchor and spend time with Peter. He'll make you angry enough to test it." Derek's voice went wry, like the idea of Stiles rooming with Peter amused him despite his earlier warning.

"That's actually our plan."

"Good luck. Don't die." He hung up, so maybe in Derek's mind that was a valediction.

Stiles grimaced at his phone. "I've seen him fake normal human interaction, which means he has to be like that on purpose."

"I think you and Scott are his best friends," Peter said, "which is sad."

"You have no friends," Stiles pointed out.

"And yet Derek is somehow naturally more depressing."

"Derek is in South America spending time with his sister and earning his master's in history. You're hanging out with your daughter's ex-boyfriend in small-town in California." Stiles smirked and wondered if Peter would react.

Peter sighed. "You're your own man, who needs my help."

"I'm not even old enough to drink legal—" Stiles groaned. "Please tell me there's a secret way for werewolves to get drunk."

"Your friends encountered a sound wave that can make werewolves act intoxicated."

He meant the bonfire when Haigh's men had almost killed Scott, Malia, and Liam while the Benefactor's dead pool was still active. The music had weakened them so much they couldn't stand, and Haigh had ordered his cronies to burn them alive.

"But what about alcohol?" Stiles pressed.

"Wolfsbane," Peter said. "I admit, I don't know if it will work on you, but there's a strain known to impair our healing that has almost no taste when dissolved in liquid." A smirk played at his lips.

"I hate you."

"An overdose leaves you unconscious, unable to heal, and therefore vulnerable, anyway."

"You're as much against fun as Derek, aren't you?"

Peter's eye twitched. Stiles doubted he'd have noticed except that he was watching, trying to find ways to read Peter. He had a feeling he'd need every advantage in the coming days.

"I don't find dulling my senses and diminishing my faculties to be fun," Peter said.

"Exactly what the anti-fun Hale would say."

"If you mean Derek, we both know he'd give a lecture about ever-present danger. Tonight, it would feature whoever poisoned the alpha you killed."

Stiles tensed. He wished Peter would say, 'the alpha who bit you,' or just, 'Fenris,' but it wasn't like he was wrong. Stiles couldn't deny what he'd done. He'd be home by now if he hadn't. He'd still be a werewolf, but not an alpha.

Peter's eyes narrowed. _"Scott_ is the true alpha. We both know that isn't something you could achieve."

"I know." Stiles wondered what made him so easy to read. Had his heart sped up? His scent gone sour? Did Peter just know him that well?

"Then why pretend his bland, self-deceptive pacifism is some perfect measure? Maybe it works for Scott, but you aren't Scott."

"Stop," Stiles ordered. "I refuse to be okay with killing."

"What about mutilating your victims beyond recognition?"

Stiles roared. His voice filled the car's cabin and pressed in around him. Peter's eyes went wide. His heart raced. He gasped for breath. Clenching his teeth as if against pain, Peter swerved to the shoulder and parked with a jerk. He dropped forward to rest his head against the steering wheel.

"Don't do that when I'm driving," Peter panted.

"You did fine. Are you pretending to freak out to make me feel bad?"

Peter choked out a harsh half-laugh. He sat up and leaned his head back to turn his closed eyes to the car's ceiling. He blinked a few times. His eyes were watering. A vein pulsed at the side of his neck.

"You're not faking," Stiles realized.

"There's a difference between a roar and an alpha roar. An alpha can do both."

"I'm guessing that wasn't the normal one."

"No."

Stiles had encountered alpha roars several times, though the first had been Peter's when he tried to force Scott to kill his friends. Derek had used his roar to stop Isaac attacking Stiles. Scott had used it to force Malia to transform back into a human. It was more than a call or a threat like most roars. It was a command.

Stiles said, "Sorry. I..."

"I know you can't control it yet," Peter said. His heart and breathing slowed. "And obviously, I can resist it since I think I was supposed to prostrate myself in apology and submit, or at least that's the feeling I got."

"Sorry," Stiles repeated. "You're not the one I'm mad at."

"I know," Peter said like it was obvious. "But even if you'd taken me up on my offer to join your pack, I wouldn't submit."

"Because it would have been temporary anyway."

"Right."

"Just until you were strong enough to find an alpha you aren't invested in and kill them," Stiles said. He should have seen it sooner, but he was distracted.

"Yes," Peter confirmed, easily.

"And what would you do then?"

"Whatever I want."

"Scott tolerates you because you've helped us. I don't think he'd feel the same if you were an alpha again."

"I don't care how Scott feels," Peter's eyes flashed.

"Malia won't leave his pack for yours."

Peter's lip twitched back in a sneer.

"I'm just saying maybe you should think it through," Stiles said.

"Apparently, that's what I have you for."

"I live out of town. You don't text nearly enough for me to save you. Do you even have my number?"

"Of course I do."

"I don't have yours," Stiles noted.

Peter pulled his phone from his jeans' pocket and texted Stiles a pound sign.

"Cute," Stiles said.

The car door ripped off its hinges. A woman in a ski mask snarled at him. She had no scent. The rain didn't wash it away; it simply was not there. She reached a clawed hand into the car and tore Stiles out, shredding his seatbelt.

"It would be one of you," she muttered. Her voice was distorted.

Howling, Stiles lashed out with his claws. She knocked him back.

His feet skidded through the mud at the side of the road and left him on the ground looking up at his attacker.

She stood over him. Though her claws were out, her eyes did not glow. "You're a strong one, Stiles, but you don't know how to use your power yet."

She knew his name.

Stiles scrambled for her mask. She fought him off.

Peter crashed into her.

Another woman followed Peter around the car, dressed like the first, masked and scentless. She held a gun in either hand. Her eyes didn't glow either.

Stiles leapt forward. She shot him.

Screaming, Stiles fell back to the mud. He dug the bullet out with his claws. It didn't smell like wolfsbane. She shot him again.

The night went red. Stiles charged. He swung for her face. His claw caught the edge of her mask.

The other one kicked Stiles away. She stomped his face into the mud.

They ran as he cleared his eyes.

Peter grabbed Stiles to pull him toward the car.

"Who the hell was that?" Stiles asked.

"I don't know. Get in the car." Peter's eyes lingered on the woods.

"Shouldn't we follow them?"

"You're not ready."

Stiles got in, though there was neither a door nor seatbelt on the passenger side anymore. Peter shoved his passenger door in the trunk where it stuck out precariously while Stiles dug the second bullet from his shoulder.

"She knew my name," Stiles said as Peter pulled the car back onto the road.

"They wore masks, hid their scents, and disguised their voices. I think it's safe to say they were worried about being recognized." Peter grimaced. "They also knew what they were doing. I think one of them may have been human, but we couldn't do more than drive them off."

"At least we did that," Stiles mumbled, scrolling through his contacts while holding his phone practically over Peter's lap to avoid getting it wet. Maybe Liam had already encountered these two.

Peter said, "The way the shifter reacted to you, she knew _someone_ would be bitten, even before she recognized you."

"You think they were out looking for whoever the alpha bit?"

Peter nodded. "Which means he was released specifically to bite someone."

"Or more than one, since I doubt they expected me to stop him."

"Murder and mutilate," Peter corrected.

Growling, Stiles texted Liam, **You guys had any trouble with werewolves or a lady with guns?**

Liam didn't respond, though Stiles doubted he'd gone to bed so early.

Stiles texted his dad next. **Two women attacked us. Knew I'd been bitten; called me by name but seemed surprised it was me. Both wore masks, disguised voice and scent.**

Noah responded in seconds, **Come home.**

 **Can't.**

 **Description? Height? Weight?**

Stiles asked Peter, but he hadn't noticed more than Stiles except the one with the guns was a couple inches shorter. Both had long, dark hair that fell past their masks. Stiles shared what little they had with Noah but didn't text more. He would just try to convince Stiles to come home, and Stiles couldn't risk hurting him.

They reached the loft without being attacked again, though the rain pouring through the gaping hole in Peter's car left Stiles drenched.

"You know _some_ cars are made with back seats just in case the front door is ripped off in the middle of a rain storm," Stiles grumbled at Peter.

"I don't think that's why," was all Peter said.

From outside, the building looked the same. Stiles recognized the window to Derek's loft even from below. It sat above a notch in the building's exterior walls that led the eye directly to the window. Looking at it from this angle, Stiles thought maybe the frequency of attacks on the loft made sense.

Inside, Peter had done some work on the loft, but Stiles didn't spend much time exploring between showering, borrowing Peter's clothes, stuffing his face, and climbing gratefully into Derek's old bed. Stiles didn't want to deal with Peter anymore tonight. He didn't want to deal with anything. Peter had shrugged and gone to a room Stiles didn't remember being there before.

Stiles lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He didn't have his pillow; he'd left it in Lydia's car. Peter had warned him the bed still smelled of Derek. Stiles wondered how a scent he could never have detected as a human but hadn't encountered since becoming a wolf could feel so familiar.

Eventually, Stiles fell asleep, even without his pillow. He dreamed of the nogitsune. A bear trap closed around his ankle and held him back as he watched himself building traps and taking lives.

 _But that wasn't how it happened,_ the nogitsune taunted.

Stiles felt the thrill rush through him when he stabbed Scott and the ecstasy of the pain Scott had unwittingly taken for him as it passed through Stiles to the void, serving his insatiable appetite. It was better than pack, better than sex, better than saving someone's life, better than his meager anchor. Stiles watched his own face leeched of life. He watched his body crumble to ash.


	3. Lose Control

I tag with the goal of helping readers choose whether to read my work. If you need clarification on any point to make that decision, or if you notice something I've overlooked while tagging, don't hesitate to comment or message.

 **Chapter Three: Lose Control**

 _Wednesday, December 17, 2014_

Stiles woke screaming. There was blood on his hands again.

Scott held Stiles against his chest, telling him, "It's okay. It's Scott. I'm here. You're safe."

"Scott?"

"It's me." Claw marks crossed his left cheek. Another set ran over his chest.

Stiles reached toward them but snatched his hand back.

"I'll heal," Scott assured him even though his ruined shirt wouldn't.

"Sorry."

"It might help, actually," Peter said. "Your father still wants you to go home." He stood behind Scott, too far off to be in danger of sleeping werewolves' claws.

"Hurting Scott proves I'm dangerous and out of control," Stiles agreed. "I'd kind of hoped I was being over-cautious."

"You were asleep," Scott argued.

"What if you had been my dad?" Stiles countered.

Scott shook his head, scattering droplets of rainwater from his damp hair, but he said, "Okay. Peter already asked me to get your things. They'll be here in the morning."

"Thanks, Scottie."

"He says you found an anchor."

"I don't think it's enough," Stiles said as his mind strayed to the memory of his nightmare.

Peter frowned. Scott rubbed Stiles' back and said, "It's okay. We'll figure it out."

"Did Lydia tell you I'm not the only thing we need to figure out?" Stiles asked.

Scott nodded. "It's the middle of the night, so we'll start on that in the morning. You're most important." After a moment, he asked, "What were you dreaming about?"

Stiles twitched his shoulder. Scott waited patiently with his hand still on Stiles' back. Peter raised his eyebrows.

"The nogitsune," Stiles said, even though the nightmare had also been about himself.

"It can't possess you again now that you're a wolf," Scott assured him.

Stiles pulled away. That wasn't why it scared him. "Why aren't you upset I killed the alpha?" he demanded.

"I wish you hadn't," Scott admitted, "but right now, you need help. Everything else can wait."

That wasn't what he said the last time Stiles killed someone.

"I also wish you hadn't killed him," Peter chimed in, "for entirely different reasons."

Scott gave Peter a flat look. Peter shrugged.

"I'm being honest," Peter said. "Malia recommended it."

"How's that working out?" Stiles asked even though he knew he shouldn't derail his conversation with Scott.

"About the same. My lies were always more strategic than frequent."

"Have you considered the possibility that you're just unlikeable?" Stiles asked.

"Strangers like me fine, so I think my actions speak louder than my personality."

"Peter," Scott said, sounding suddenly tired, "I'd like to speak to Stiles alone."

Peter huffed in feigned offense but left them. Stiles tracked Peter's footsteps across the loft. Something light scraped against wood as Peter picked it up. Peter's weight settled on to his mattress, and Stiles heard the turning of pages as Peter read. Stiles didn't believe for a second Peter would be polite enough not to listen in.

"Stiles," Scott said, and Stiles turned his attention to him. "I know being around people who can't heal may not be the best idea, but I'm not sure Peter is the best person to help either."

"You weren't back in town yet." Stiles shifted on the bed to better face Scott.

"I am now," Scott said. "Will you let me help?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

Scott set his hand on Stiles' shoulder and looked him in the eye. "It will be easier if we're pack."

Stiles furrowed his eyebrows. They'd lived apart for over a year now, but that didn't make them not pack.

Scott said, "I was already loading the Jeep when Lydia called me. I felt it when you became a werewolf, and then right after that you just disappeared, but not like you had died."

"You mean when I became an alpha, I stopped being part of your pack?"

"You can still rejoin," Scott promised. "I called Deaton while I was driving."

"I never tried to stop being pack," Stiles said.

"I know." Scott squeezed Stiles' shoulder. "He said it happened automatically because an alpha is meant to lead their own pack, but we can fix it."

"How?"

"The same way we did it before. We stick together." Scott smiled. "We'll figure this out."

"Did Deaton have an instruction booklet or YouTube tutorial?"

"He suggested two ways. If we stay together, the bond will form naturally given time."

"What's the other way?" Stiles asked.

Scott grimaced. "The way Deucalion built his pack was to dominate the others."

Stiles growled instinctively at the idea.

"I don't like it either," Scott assured him.

"Sorry. I keep doing that."

"It's okay, Stiles. We all have trouble at first. I tried to kill you in the locker room," Scott reminded him. "You said you don't think the anchor you found will work. Can you tell me why?"

Stiles traced a pattern across Derek's comforter with his finger and instead asked, "Why didn't thinking of my father work?"

"Just because you love someone doesn't mean they're your anchor. My mom isn't my anchor."

"Allison used to be," Stiles said. "How did you keep going after losing her?"

"I had to become my own anchor," Scott explained. "I think it's easier, especially at first, to use something external, but people and things can be lost."

 _No one can lose it,_ the nogitsune had said.

Scott asked, "What did you use earlier?"

"The way I felt after saving Lydia. I thought if it was enough to decide my future, it should be enough to keep me present, remind me who I am and who I want to be."

"Peter said it helped. What changed?"

"It helped; it didn't work completely. And... I remembered I've felt better, but I wasn't the one feeling it at the time." Stiles scowled at the memory.

Scott's brown eyes grew wide. "You mean the nogitsune?"

Stiles nodded.

"An anchor doesn't have to be happy," Scott said. "It doesn't have to feel good."

"Peter's is anger."

"Derek's used to be too. Have you tried a mantra?"

Stiles shook his head. "I only know two, and I don't find either very comforting."

"Do you think you can sleep?" Scott asked.

"Are we done talking?"

"No, but it's late."

Stiles sighed. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Do you need me to stay?"

Stiles shook his head. "If I start thrashing and screaming, Peter can throw things at me from a safe distance until I wake up. I think he might enjoy it."

Scott looked so worried that Stiles hugged him.

"I'll be fine," Stiles promised. "Go to your mom's and get some sleep."

Scott returned the hug. "You _will_ be fine. You remember how bad I was at first?"

Stiles snickered. "Like that time you sniffed every member of the lacrosse team to figure out which one was a werewolf?"

Scott laughed softly. "I'll be back in the morning."

After Scott left, Stiles got up to wash his hands and relieve himself and wash his hands again. By the time he finished, Peter had turned off the lights, so Stiles climbed back into bed.

This time, Stiles dreamed of Donovan.

Stiles kicked, but Donovan gripped his ankle. His palm was a mouth. The teeth threatened to break through Stiles' pants to shred the skin beneath. Above Stiles, a pin smaller than his palm held the scaffolding in place. In the dream, he knew pulling it would kill Donovan. He struggled to pull himself up as Donovan tugged him downward. He slipped his finger through the loop at the pin's head and jerked it out. The scaffolding fell. Donovan released Stiles' ankle. Stiles turned to see Donovan impaled below and thought, _Good._

Stiles woke gasping for breath.

"Bad dream?" Peter asked.

Stiles threw a pillow at him, but Peter caught it and threw it back.

"Is it a me thing or a newly-turned thing?" Stiles asked.

Peter shrugged. "I'm a born wolf, remember?"

"But you know about the bite," Stiles pressed.

"It's most likely a combination of the two." Peter sighed. "Do you like crepes?"

"Is cereal too plebian for you?"

"Is that a no?"

"I've never tried one," Stiles said.

With a nod, Peter turned to the kitchen. Stiles was even hungrier than usual and hoped crepes were good. He grabbed his phone to check the time, but it had died during the night.

"Where's your phone charger?" Stiles asked.

"There's one plugged in behind the table by the door," Peter answered. Neither raised their voice, though they stood in different rooms now.

Stiles plugged in his phone, but it would be a while before it had enough power to turn back on. The rain had stopped during the night, and morning sunlight poured through the large windows. Stiles grabbed a book from the table to flip through. It turned out to be on adjusting to change, and Stiles wondered if Peter had left it out as some kind of joke.

When Peter called him over to eat, Stiles dropped the book onto the new dining table and asked, "Self help?"

"Are you implying you don't need help?" Peter smirked.

Stiles stuck his tongue out and snatched his plate.

"Mm... guess I like crepes," Stiles said around a mouthful as he wolfed it down.

The door opened as Scott entered the loft. Stiles frowned. He hadn't noticed anything sooner, though he could have if he'd been paying attention. That meant his senses must default to human when he wasn't thinking about them. He supposed that made sense. His face did too, when he wasn't freaking out. Scott left Stiles' suitcase and pillow by the door and joined them at the table.

"How'd you sleep?" Scott asked. His face had healed.

"I know that's disguised as a casual pleasantry, but it doesn't work that way when you know I have sleeping problems." Stiles grimaced at his breakfast. "I had another nightmare."

"What about?"

"Donovan."

Scott nodded solemnly.

Stiles sighed. "So is the plan to talk about my feelings until one of them anchors me?"

"We have time," Scott assured him. "You're still in your pajamas."

"I'm in Peter's pajamas," Stiles corrected.

"You know what I mean."

"I'm actually not sure if you're going easy on me or stalling," Stiles said.

Scott blinked at him. "Just... shower and change."

Stiles' teeth clenched at the order, but he held back. He wanted Scott to be his alpha, and Scott wasn't issuing commands anyway, not really.

"Fine," Stiles agreed.

Peter and Scott chatted less-than-amicably while Stiles got ready, but after the third time Peter ignored Scott's implication that he should make himself scarce, Stiles tuned them out.

When Stiles returned to the main room—the loft was weird, so it was something like a great room with a bed in it—Scott and Peter had taken armchairs opposite each other. Stiles sat on the couch between them, closer to Scott than Peter.

Scott glanced at Peter before turning to Stiles. "I think we'll have to talk about more than anchors. You're not just a newly turned wolf; you're an alpha. That extra spark can amplify your psychological state."

"Deaton?" Stiles guessed.

"Morrell, but she sent her comments through Deaton."

"She _would_ want me to talk about my nightmares," Stiles muttered. Morrell had been his school counselor and his psychologist in Eichen. Mostly she'd advised him to suffer through the pain and take his meds.

"We're trying to re-forge pack bonds and find an anchor," Scott reminded him. "That's personal, sometimes intimate." His eyes flickered to Peter.

Stiles sighed. "He'll listen in anyway. This way there's a small chance he'll say something useful."

"You should listen to Stiles," Peter advised Scott.

Scott told Stiles, "I want to be sure you're comfortable."

"Something is bothering you," Stiles observed.

"I'm going to ask you if the happiest moment of your life was something you felt as the nogitsune," Scott told him.

"Oh," Stiles said.

"Stiles," Scott pressed, voice gentle though his intent wasn't. "Was it?"

"No."

"Then what was?"

"I don't know. That's a big thing to pick."

Scott leaned toward Stiles, but he was too far away to touch. His eyebrows had pulled close and swooped upward in classic unnecessary concern.

"Don't look at me like that," Stiles snapped. "Things aren't only good, okay. I was MVP for a lacrosse game sophomore year. It was awesome until Gerard Argent kidnapped and beat me. The first time Lydia ever kissed me was to stop a panic attack I was having because the darach took my dad. When we got Lydia out of Eichen, she still had a hole in her head. That's just three examples, Scott. I could keep going."

Peter said, "At least we've established that happiness is a poor focus for your anchor."

Scott nodded. "I'm sorry, Stiles. How did it feel to be human again after being the nogitsune?"

"Painful," Stiles said. "I felt like I was dying, and I felt like I deserved it."

"It wasn't your fault," Scott said.

"You asked how I felt."

Peter surged to his feet. His eyes were wide but unfocused like he was concentrating on his other senses. When he listened, Stiles heard footsteps from lower in the building. Two sets. No scent.

"It's them," Stiles said.

"Get away," Scott ordered. "I'll hold them off."

Peter grabbed Stiles' arm. "We can cross the rooftops."

"Like ninjas?" Stiles asked as he followed Peter to the spiral staircase in the corner.

At the door to the roof, Peter jerked back, tugging Stiles with him. Someone was on the other side.

The door crashed inward. Behind it stood the taller of the two masked women, the shifter. Dark hair hung over her shoulders, and claws punctured the fingertips of her gloves. She tilted her head as if studying them.

"You two make a strange pair."

Peter pushed Stiles toward the stairs and lunged at their attacker. She kicked him into Stiles. The rail stopped them midway down the staircase.

Stiles growled. He pulled himself to his feet to charge.

A bullet through the thigh put him back down. Stiles' eyes burned red as he growled.

The other woman, the shooter, stood below the stairs with one gun still aimed at Stiles.

"An alpha?" she noted with a tilt of her head. Brown eyes narrowed, barely visible past her mask. "You actually killed him."

She got past Scott. They had heard two footsteps below. The shifter was above.

Scott.

Scott knelt near the door clutching his ears. A masked man aimed a humming plastic gun at him.

"You didn't say anything about two alphas," the man complained, voice disguised like the others. "Or that McCall would be here."

The shifter kicked Peter again, sending him and Stiles the rest of the way down the staircase. "We said he might."

Scott groaned. He tried to stand.

Stiles charged, but the shooter stopped him. He needed to reach Scott.

"This is taking too long," the shooter spat. "Cover me."

The shifter twisted past Peter to hurl Stiles across the loft.

"We don't need to kill the others." The vocal scrambler disguised the shifter's tone.

She grappled Peter anyway as the shooter emptied her magazine.

"We don't need them alive either," the shooter said.

Wolfsbane. The bullets she loaded reeked of it. The shooter aimed for Peter.

Stiles hurled himself past the shifter as the human fired.

The bullet took him in the gut like he'd been punched by a truck.

"Now look what you've done," the shifter growled.

Stiles swung wildly. His claws caught her arm.

"He's fine," the shooter said.

Stiles howled. Baring fangs, he leapt.

She shot his leg again.

"He's not in control," the shifter hissed. "You shouldn't have shot him."

A wave of pressure washed over him. It weakened his knees and echoed through his ears with the low hum from the plastic gun, amplified now as it aimed at Stiles. Stiles squeezed his hands against his ears but couldn't block out the sound. He screamed but couldn't drown it out.

It stopped. Stiles tried to stand, stumbled back to one knee, fell farther to catch himself with one hand.

Scott held a crushed plastic form in one hand. He punched the shooter with the other. She hit the ground.

Peter hurled the shifter beside her.

The man was gone. The women made their escape as Stiles struggled to stand.

From his knees, Stiles growled, "We have to get them."

"We can't," Scott said.

"You're holding the thing that stopped us!" Stiles crawled to the wall and set his weight against it to stand.

Scott looked at the crushed gun in his hand. It was missing the grip. "Part of it, but we can't catch them now. You can't stand."

"It'll pass. You're standing."

"You've been shot, Stiles," Scott reminded him. "Three times."

"You lost control," Peter added. "And you don't know how to use your power yet."

"They attacked us!" Stiles swung an arm to drive his point home. It nearly unbalanced him.

"Peter's right," Scott said. "They know who we are and what we're capable of. We know almost nothing about them. We need a plan and backup."

"You mean we need to sit around until they attack again," Stiles spat.

"Maybe you should stay somewhere else," Scott suggested.

"Where else is free of humans?" Peter asked. He motioned to Stiles. "Or is this the face of a calm and controlled werewolf who won't maim anyone out of hand?"

Stiles was still shifted. His hands shook with a need to latch around his attackers' throats. Maybe Scott and Peter's would do.

Scott sighed. "We'll be ready next time, keep watch outside if we have to, but we need to wait for now."

Stiles groaned, though it sounded more like a threat since it came out half-growl.

"We'll help you get control," Scott promised, "and we'll hunt them down and bring them in."

Stiles willed his claws to retract. They didn't. "Am I grounded because you think I'll kill them?"

"You're learning your new powers," Scott insisted. "And it's got to be worse for you since you have a lot more power to learn than most new wolves."

Peter nodded and shrugged, so Stiles punched him. Peter's nose cracked. Scott rushed forward to restrain Stiles, but Stiles hadn't moved. He was done. Blood poured down Peter's face. He cracked his nose back into place and spat blood at Stiles.

Stiles breathed deeply, but he wasn't interested in control just then. He wasn't sure he ever was.

"Sorry, Peter," Stiles said.

Peter's nose would need extra time to heal since Stiles was an alpha. Still, even Stiles didn't think he sounded convincing.

"I've had worse," Peter said.

"We know you didn't mean it," Scott said, "but can you see why we want you to stay put for now?"

"They've attacked us twice in as many days," Stiles insisted. "Attacked _me."_

"And now they know you're protected," Scott assured him.

Stiles set one clawed hand to the wound in his belly. "Barely."

He picked the bullet from his gut with his claws and studied it.

"Wolfsbane," Peter noted, though he sounded unconcerned.

Stiles nodded. His blood flowed red, not black, with no sign of wolfsbane infection. With the bullet out, the wound began to stitch itself closed, visibly, if slowly.

"That would have killed me," Peter added too casually.

"I guess I'm immune," Stiles muttered as he picked the bullets from his leg. "Like Fenris was."

Fenris had been sick as well as immune to wolfsbane. Stiles slid back to the floor and sat with his head against the wall as he finished healing.

.

Scott spent so much of the day on his phone that Stiles barely had to talk to him. Stiles knew he should want to, but after last night's dreams, Stiles worried he couldn't have an anchor. Years ago, Stiles claimed control was overrated. It hadn't stopped him from clinging to his high school life, trying to control every piece of the transition to college so he wouldn't lose his friends. All that anxiety had been for nothing. Stiles moved to the other side of the country, but they were still pack. They stayed close in other ways.

Until now. Until Stiles was bitten and killed the alpha.

Stiles scrolled through his Facebook feed, not really looking, just looking busy. When he'd turned on the phone, a dozen texts and messages came through, each more worried than the last. For a while, answering them had occupied him, though nearly every message he sent had said, **I'm fine. Phone died. Scott's with me now.**

Liam had sent what looked like a page-long apology in about twenty pieces for missing Stiles' text last night. He said Beacon Hills had been quiet with no sign of enemy werewolves or shooters.

Lydia hadn't texted him, so she was nearly the only person he hadn't messaged yet.

He texted, **You owe me $5.**

 **What?** she asked.

 **We didn't make it through dinner.**

 **I hate being wrong.**

Stiles debated whether he should delete the photo of his bite. He could post it online and pretend it was stage makeup or digitally altered, but too many people he hated would know that for a lie. Before long, everyone would know Stiles had been bitten anyway.

A car parked outside. Stiles furrowed his brows in concentration. It sounded bigger than Peter's car.

"It's Argent's SUV," Peter said. He lounged on the couch, alternating icing his nose with reading an old leather-bound book. The scratches left by their attacker hadn't faded yet either.

Stiles jerked back like he could escape Peter's notice. "How did you know I—"

"Your face."

Stiles wasn't sure what to say to that. He realized Peter had said it was _Argent's_ and jolted upright.

"What is Argent doing here?" Stiles demanded. Chris Argent was human. Stiles was supposed to interact with werecreatures only.

"He can take care of himself," Peter said, "and he's here to test how you respond to mountain ash now that you've turned fully. He brought wolfsbane too, but we can tell him we won't need it."

Argent wasn't alone. It took Stiles a moment to identify the other. "Theo is with him. He can do it."

Peter twitched his shoulders in what might have been a shrug if he weren't lying down. "I suspect that's the plan."

"Why Theo?" Stiles grumbled. "Corey's a chimera too."

"A chimera and a coward," Peter said.

"Theo wanted to be an alpha. What if he tries to kill me?"

"Kill him faster."

"Nobody's killing anyone," Scott said as he stepped into the room, off his phone at last. "That's why Argent is here."

Peter rolled his eyes and dropped his ice pack back onto his face. It was an actual ice pack, not a plastic bag or frozen peas. Stiles hadn't realized real human people owned those, much less werewolves with super-healing.

When Theo reached the loft, he nodded to Peter and asked, "What happened to him?"

Peter groaned, "Stiles' fist."

"Still got that temper?" Theo winked at Stiles.

"Why? Did you want me to punch you too?" Stiles curled his hand into a fist. Punching Theo hadn't helped before, but it had been satisfying.

Theo chuckled. "I'm fine right now."

The only thing worse than the chuckle was that Theo smelled almost electric. Stiles fought back the sudden suspicion that Theo had volunteered to test him.

Argent ignored the exchange and pointed to an open area. "Over there will do." Theo took a bag from him and walked where Argent indicated as Argent turned to Stiles to say, "If you need more time, we can come back."

Stiles shook his head. "Better to know what you can use on me if I lose control."

Argent nodded his approval. He told Stiles, "Join Theo. He'll administer the test while I keep guard by the door. Scott will be closer, and I assume Peter will remain prostrate on the couch."

Peter offered a thumbs up without removing his ice pack. Last time Stiles saw his nose, the swelling had entirely gone down, so he was probably fine. He just hated Argents.

Theo had already formed most of an ash circle and motioned for Stiles to step inside so he could close it. The barrier stopped Stiles' hand when he tried to reach back out.

"So it works," Theo said.

Stiles shrugged. "The last one worked at first too. Make me angry."

Theo returned the shrug and tossed a handful of powdered wolfsbane in Stiles' face. Stiles stumbled back sneezing. The room spun.

"I said angry, not dizzy," Stiles muttered. "I got shot with wolfsbane earlier, so we didn't need that part."

"I saw what you did to the alpha," Theo said, selecting a different strain of wolfsbane. "It was exactly what I told Scott you did to Donovan. I cried when I told the lie because I know, to most people, it would be horrifying. Monstrous."

Stiles lunged at the barrier, but it held. The new wolfsbane made his eyes itch. Stiles beat his claws against the barrier to keep them away from his eyes. The itch climbed deeper inside him. Behind his eyes, under his skin. By the time Theo spoke, the inside of Stiles' veins itched.

"Need more anger?" Theo asked.

"Yes." It was more growl than word.

"Scott was easy to convince. He thinks he's so good, a true alpha. He thinks he's better than you."

"Not enough," Stiles said through gritted fangs.

"I could have saved your father myself. I may even have been able to stop the chimera from hurting him. Did you know both their names were Noah?"

Stiles roared at mention of his father's injury. Noah Stilinski had nearly died. Stiles would kill Theo if his father died, smash his face in like he had the alpha's.

The barrier broke.

"Shit." Theo threw another handful of wolfsbane in Stiles' face.

Stiles stumbled but stormed through it.

Scott tackled Stiles and struggled to hold him down. "It's okay. You're safe. Your dad is safe."

Stiles pushed back, but Peter added his strength to Scott's, and the two held him down together until the rage passed.

Scott loomed over Stiles where he lay on the floor and asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Stiles groaned, sitting up.

Theo had moved to the doorway. Argent held his position.

"You broke the mountain ash barrier," Peter said. There was something in his voice, more than curiosity but less than excitement.

"But the wolfsbane worked," Theo added. "At first."

"You might be short a face if it hadn't," Peter told him with a smirk.

"He told me to provoke him."

"He didn't tell you to be stupid."

"Enough," Scott said. "Argent, is that enough to be sure?"

"Reasonably sure. Theo's wrong, though. The second handful of wolfsbane should have knocked Stiles out, but it just seemed to agitate him."

Scott nodded.

Stiles coughed. "It itched."

"The itch might have been your body fighting it," Peter said. "Healing often itches."

"What about the third wolfsbane?" Scott asked.

"Should have had him wheezing," Theo said with a shrug.

"What does it mean that they didn't work?" Stiles asked. The itching had faded, though he felt weak, like he'd been running on an empty stomach.

"We're looking into it," Argent assured him as he motioned for Theo to head out.

"Does it mean I'm going to end up sick like Fenris was?"

"We don't know," Argent admitted, but promised, "I won't be far until we do."

Scott set his hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Whatever happens, we'll handle it. If you're sick, we'll cure it."

Stiles put his arm around Scott like he needed the help to stand. He hoped Scott was right.


	4. No One Can Lose It

I've cut many words since claiming the first chapter was the shortest because—and this may shock some of you—I have a habit of using more words than strictly necessary to say a thing. XD

 **Chapter Four: No One Can Lose It**

 _Thursday, December 18, 2014_

The next morning, Malia arrived at the loft with Braeden on her heels. Malia had cut her hair again, shorter this time. She wore jeans and a loose sweater, but mostly Stiles noticed her grin when she saw him. She pulled Stiles in for a hug less crushing than he remembered, though he knew _he_ had changed, not Malia's strength. She smelled good, clear but complex, like a run through the woods and a bubble bath.

Braeden was human, but Stiles saved his grumbling. She could handle herself nearly as well as Argent. She nodded to Stiles and stood by the door, obviously waiting on Malia. She appeared unarmed but otherwise looked much as Stiles remembered. Maybe she frowned at him slightly harder than before.

"We weren't expecting you," Peter told Braeden.

"And I was hoping against you." She grimaced at him like he smelled bad, though he actually smelled too nice because he insisted on unreasonably expensive soap and cologne. Even the dish soap was some fancy brand Stiles had never heard of before. Stiles refused to ask about any of it because then he'd have to listen to Peter talk about soap.

"Afraid Stiles and I are both staying here." Peter sighed and raised his hands as if at a loss. "No room for you."

"She wasn't going to stay here," Malia said, finally releasing Stiles.

"Derek might not appreciate it," Braeden added.

"I'd say he doesn't hold grudges but..." Peter rubbed his throat with a wry grin.

Braeden glared daggers though she only crossed her arms.

Malia turned back to Stiles. "I'd have come sooner if I could."

"It's okay."

"Scott said you're working on your anchor. What do you need?"

"I don't know." Stiles felt fine right now, but the moon was nearly new. His control would only get worse as it waxed toward full.

"You helped the rest of us. You can do this."

"Thanks."

"If you can't, Peter knows ways you can give up the alpha spark without dying." Malia had never been the most reassuring of his friends.

"Does he now?" Stiles leaned past Malia to raise an eyebrow at Peter, covering annoyance already bubbling toward anger.

"Don't try to be cute," Peter said. "I've hidden nothing from you."

"Not all of them involve giving your power to Peter," Malia clarified, evidently catching that Peter had suggested it already.

"Apparently, he'd rather keep it," Peter told her.

"I didn't ask for this," Stiles growled, angry at himself for his short temper as much as at Peter's drive to claim an alpha's power anew.

"But it's yours now," Peter said. "And I daresay you only had part of that power forced upon you. The rest you took. I'd say by tooth and claw, but it was more by metal bat."

"Peter," Malia warned.

"He's a werewolf, not an infant. We don't have to coddle him." Peter leaned back and put his feet up on the coffee table, entirely at ease.

Malia turned back to Stiles. "Ignore Peter. He's a jerk."

"An evil jerk," Braeden added, though she settled down next to Peter and put her feet up beside his. She added, "Have you tried meditation? I'm not sure it's possible with him in the room, but it's worth a shot."

Stiles snorted so hard he had to check his nose to be sure he hadn't shot out any snot.

"Not sure meditation is my thing anyway," Stiles said. He was calmer, at least, and wondered if their intent had been to distract him from his building rage. The last time he'd had so little control of himself, he'd been possessed by an evil fox.

Braeden shrugged. "People always tell me to try yoga when they don't know why I'm mad at them."

"I need to teach him to fight," Peter said. "That should be as good as yoga."

Braeden shrugged. "The way you all fight has less to do with technique than swinging your super-strength around."

"Are you in town for a job?" Stiles asked Braeden. She had no family here.

"If you mean, do I know anything about an alpha in the area, the answer's no."

Stiles squinted at her. "Does that mean you do have a job, but it's not related to the bad guys we already know are here?"

"That's good enough for me," Braeden agreed.

"We don't know who our bad guys are yet, so how can you be sure?" Stiles demanded.

Braeden spread her hands but didn't actually answer.

Malia shook her head. "I promised my dad I'd have lunch with him, but I'll be back."

"Have fun," Stiles said.

Malia stopped by Peter before leaving. "I want to tell him about you. That you're my dad."

"I'm not sure I legally exist," Peter said.

"You're just listed as missing," Stiles assured him. When Peter raised an eyebrow, Stiles asked, "What?"

Malia ignored Stiles and asked Peter, "Are you willing to meet him?"

"You want me to?"

She shrugged.

"In the face of such conviction, how could I say no?"

Malia grunted but left, so that must have been enough for her. Braeden gave Peter a warning look before following.

"Still not very good at the dad thing," Stiles noted.

"I didn't exactly raise her."

"Neither did her other dad. She raised herself in a cave in the woods."

Peter glared, but Stiles ignored it. He dropped onto the couch beside Peter in the spot Braeden had vacated. Stiles had hoped Malia would visit longer, but he couldn't blame her for spending time with her father. If not for a new tendency to attack people, Stiles would be with his own dad now.

"So," Stiles asked. "Any plans?"

Peter sighed.

"Two days ago, you were insistent that I need you," Stiles reminded him.

"Scott can't convince you to admit why your anchor failed. How would I?"

Stiles pouted. "I did tell him."

"We're not building your psych profile. You don't have to tell us anything, but you do need to figure it out for yourself."

"Then what are you here for?"

"To hit you until it doesn't make you lose control."

Stiles frowned.

"I know how to pull my punches, Stiles. You'll do more damage to me than I will to you."

Stiles shook his head. That wasn't the part that bothered him most. "Isn't there another word for it? I swear I've heard 'control' over twenty times since being bitten."

Peter smirked.

"What?"

Peter raised his eyebrows and his hands.

 _"What?"_

Peter pulled up something on his phone and began reading, "Discipline, mastery, command, domination, manipulation—"

"Shut up," Stiles hissed. He didn't need Peter to read him synonyms.

"Can't. The reason you can't find an anchor is likely that something about the idea of control repels you. I don't see why, since you can be more than a little controlling yourself. Malia told me how you ruined her senior photos."

"I was being erased from existence at the time. Give me a break."

"Nice deflection."

Stiles bit his lip.

Peter stood. "Did you bring any athletic wear or sweats?"

Stiles nodded.

"If you'd like to lose control and attack me, get changed and meet me in the wide empty space on the second floor."

Stiles grumbled at Peter's back, "Do you have to find the worst way to word everything?"

"Trust me," Peter said as he sauntered toward his room, "I'm not."

Stiles used the bathroom to change into his sweatpants and a t-shirt he loved less and headed downstairs.

Stiles had never seen Peter in shorts or sneakers before, so he paused a moment when he found Peter on the second floor. His socks reached halfway up his shins. He looked like a dork.

Peter sighed. "Derek would have had us bloodying our real clothes. Forgive me if this is what I don't mind losing."

"Could you at least pretend not to know what I'm thinking?" He knew Peter was just observant, but it was still creepy.

Peter laughed. It was a mean laugh. He beckoned Stiles over.

"You don't want to wait until I have an anchor?" Stiles asked.

"Sitting around waiting won't make it happen. We find our anchors when we need them, not when we're meditating."

Stiles supposed that made sense.

"Today isn't about technique. I'm going to hit you. Try not to hit back."

Stiles scrunched up his face to show how likely he thought that was.

"I know," Peter said.

He set a hand on Stiles' shoulder and looked him in the eye to be sure he was ready. When Stiles nodded, Peter pulled back his hand and punched Stiles in the face.

Stiles growled. He swung his claws out, but Peter danced away. Stiles managed to keep his position, but he was shifted now and too agitated to turn back. One hit in, and he'd already failed.

Peter tsked. Stiles' chest vibrated with rage.

Peter leapt forward for a kick that connected with Stiles' left side. This time when Stiles missed, he chased. Rage overtook him. Stiles knew he shouldn't fight, but he knew in his bones he couldn't just let Peter hit him.

Scott said the darkness around his heart made him sad; he looked to his friends to remind him of what made him happy. Stiles' darkness made him angry. He'd always had a temper, and too often he couldn't tell where his natural anger ended and the darkness began until after the moment passed. This was worse than darkness alone.

Peter was quick. Stiles knew he should be able to catch him, but Peter avoided every blow. Each miss made Stiles angrier.

"I can teach you to use that anger," Peter said. His voice was even, while Stiles' was ragged with rage.

Stiles screamed at him.

"Don't fight it," Peter continued. "We both know you can't. Ride it like the river current. Ride it like a storm."

Stiles lashed out. If anger was a river, the current had already pulled him under.

Peter smashed Stiles against the floor and held him there by his throat. "You don't need to control it," Peter hissed. "It wants through you, so let it in."

Stiles rammed his claws into Peter's gut.

Peter jerked back as blood spread over his white shirt.

"It's not surrender," Peter said, taking a step back. "Not unless you let it erase you."

Roaring, Stiles charged. Peter still dodged, but he slowed with time until Stiles' claws raked over his chest.

Peter sighed and gestured vaguely at his shirt, now hanging in tatters.

Stiles roared.

Peter froze. His eyes narrowed. His throat was bare. Stiles roared again, and Peter stumbled back. He collapsed and reached with one arm to cover his head. Blood smeared his forearm where he'd gripped his injured abs.

Peter whispered, "Please, Stiles, help."

Stiles hesitated. Confusion broke through the rage. He nudged Peter with his toe.

"I'm fine," Peter assured him. He climbed to his feet and tossed his ruined shirt aside.

"Am I really that easy to manipulate?" Stiles asked.

"I'm special," Peter assured him. "Alphas fight for status and to defeat their enemies, but they also protect and care for their pack. We may not be close, but we've known each other long enough that you respond to my asking for help."

"Oh my God," Stiles groaned.

"In my defense, you were ready to kill me until I tricked you."

Stiles growled at himself. "I don't know what I'll want to do from one instant to the next now."

"I do. When you're about to get angry, your hands shake. When you're about to go too far, your scowl shifts into a snarl. And when you're about to do whatever I want, generally, I'm the one speaking." Peter winked.

Stiles didn't know what to say to that. "You thought you could tempt me to the dark side with your sith talk of using my evil emotions." Stiles crossed his arms and stared Peter down.

Peter shrugged. The wounds Stiles left had already healed. Peter's nose had taken hours. Stiles stepped forward to poke the smooth skin of Peter's chest.

"Did you think I was just going to let you hurt me?" Peter asked. His heart beat too fast.

Stiles frowned. He'd gotten Peter deeper near his stomach, but that looked nearly healed too. Smudged streams of blood showed where the wounds had been.

"How?" Stiles asked.

"I can't afford to say unless I'm certain you won't sabotage me in a rage."

That was fair, but Stiles wanted to know.

Peter caught Stiles hand, and Stiles realized he'd still been tracing the missing wounds on Peter's chest.

"Do you want to try again?" Peter asked. His voice was soft.

Stiles shrugged.

Peter's eyes narrowed.

"I lost control completely," Stiles said. "Just because you hit me."

Peter nodded, eyebrows high.

"Nothing you said helped. I guess I don't want to take control, but I don't want to give it up either."

"I hadn't noticed."

Stiles slapped him with his free hand. Peter caught him by the wrist, but only after the hit connected. At least Stiles didn't try to do more. He wanted to jerk his hands free but was afraid what he'd do with them.

Peter sneered a moment before smoothing his features. He had both of Stiles' hands now. He stepped forward into Stiles' space, so Stiles stepped back. Peter pressed him until Stiles' back hit the wall. He wasn't tall enough to loom over Stiles, but he leaned forward, eyes glowing.

"I may not have red eyes, but I'm strong enough to take you right now, Stiles. You're alive because I've chosen not to kill you, not because I can't."

This time, Stiles' anger was cold. "Am I supposed to be grateful?"

"You're supposed to be stronger than this."

"You've killed an alpha before. Maybe you're stronger than you let on."

"I surprised her."

"You expect me to believe you're weak?"

"I expect you to be strong."

"Why? What do you get out of this?"

"I haven't decided yet."

Stiles shoved him back. "Something doesn't become yours just because you decided it is."

"For that, I have to take it," Peter agreed.

Stiles' growl rumbled deep in his throat.

Peter raised his arms. "What are you doing about it?"

Stiles tilted his head, studying Peter through narrowed eyes. "Are you baiting me?"

"Yes."

Stiles bared his teeth.

"Are you going to use those?" Peter asked.

Stiles kicked him. Peter flew back. He crashed against the floor with a grunt. Stiles heard the floor crack. When Peter sat up and rolled his shoulders, Stiles saw the crack spreading behind him.

"Guess not." Peter stood and brushed off his shorts.

Stiles wanted to run forward and wrap his hands around Peter's throat, so he did. Peter tapped at Stiles' hands like he thought Stiles would just let go if he tapped out. Peter let his hand fall.

He grabbed Stiles by the balls and tugged.

Stiles screamed. He released Peter and rolled onto the floor. The pain faded almost immediately, but he stayed on the ground.

"I'll admit not having a safe word makes this difficult," Peter quipped.

"I don't know why I can't stop." He didn't apologize this time and wouldn't unless Peter did first.

"I think we're done for now."

Peter offered Stiles a hand to help him up. Stiles hesitated but accepted.

Peter rubbed at the blood on his chest. "I haven't gotten the second restroom finished. You'll forgive me if I want to shower first."

Stiles shrugged.

"Stop moping. You did better the second time. Lasted longer before attacking and came closer to killing me once you did."

"I don't want to kill you, Peter." He didn't want to kill anyone.

Peter didn't stop walking, but he put a hand on Stiles' arm. "You answered when I howled."

Stiles didn't know what to say to that. He had. After he ran from hurting Lydia and the threat of hurting his father, he answered when Peter howled. He could have waited. Lydia would have called until someone answered, even if it took until Scott got into town hours later.

While Peter showered, Stiles sat down and tried to think why he had answered. His mind kept straying. The nogitsune's voice ran on repeat in his head.

 _Everyone has it, but no one can lose it._

"Hey," Peter said.

Stiles hadn't noticed him come out of the shower, but Peter stood over him with a towel wrapped around his waist. With the blood gone, Stiles could see the skin where Peter had healed himself was still pink, the last vestige of the extra difficulty in healing an alpha's strike.

"I didn't hurt you, right?" Peter asked, sounding more confused than concerned.

"I'm fine. Just spaced out."

 _No one can lose it._

Peter's eye twitched. He knelt, studying Stiles through narrowed eyes.

"I said I'm fine," Stiles insisted.

"Scott asked the wrong question, didn't he?"

Stiles tried to stand, but Peter pressed him gently back into his seat. Stiles let him.

Peter asked, "How did it feel when you realized you were the nogitsune?"

Stiles shoved past Peter and locked himself in the restroom.

He remembered finding the chem closet key on his key ring. Going to the classroom. Seeing the numbers on the chalkboard with Kira's name. Recognizing the handwriting. Matching it with his own.

The world had crashed around him.

Stiles was the monster.

.

Stiles woke from a dream of stuffing Kira's mouth with flies. He had kicked his blankets off, but at least he didn't scream as he woke this time. Stiles thought his previous dreams had been restful; there was no sweat on his pillow. He may even have managed not to wake Peter.

He focused his hearing. Peter's heart was racing. Stiles almost ran to check on him, but a soft moan divided Peter's rapid breaths. Then Stiles noticed the glide of skin against slicked skin. And the scent, deep and heated. Stiles tasted it on his tongue and realized his mouth had fallen open. He tried, and failed, not to picture Peter lying naked on his bed, head thrown back as—

Peter was distracted. He probably didn't know Stiles could hear him. Smell him. Taste him.

Stiles clamped his teeth shut and tried to reign his senses in. He didn't have that kind of control. He tiptoed from his bed instead and crept out the door, downstairs, and outside, stopping only when he couldn't hear Peter anymore.

He didn't know if he'd left to spare Peter the embarrassment, or himself.

Peter had smelled so good.

No one had mentioned this to Stiles, but he guessed they usually smelled people like that in specific, intimate, private, _consensual_ situations. Stiles found his tongue against his lip and replaced it with his teeth. He wondered how long he should give Peter. He'd seemed pretty into it so—Stiles couldn't finish that thought. He focused on puppies and kittens and old people complaining about Obamacare.

The night was cool, though hardly cold like the northeast. Stiles tugged off his shirt to let the air prickle his skin. He breathed it into his lungs. Stiles leaned back against the wall and relaxed. He hadn't been outside in the last two days, not since he was bitten. No one else lived around here. He should come outside more. Maybe on the roof, if the idea made Scott nervous.

"He seems hot at first, but he's not worth the trouble."

Stiles jumped with a yelp. He'd thought he was alone. He spun, looking for whoever had spoken. The voice was altered, like the ones who had attacked him, though it left them all sounding the same.

She stepped around the corner, still masked, but Stiles recognized the shooter. Her clothes and boots looked much like they had earlier, but she smelled fresh, like she had showered. Stiles still couldn't picked up her personal scent and guessed the freshness came from her clothes. She wore a holster at each hip and one was empty of the sidearm aimed at Stiles' heart.

Stiles flashed his eyes and bared his fangs, not sure when he had shifted.

"Relax," she said with a gun pointed at him. "I'm recon tonight. As if we hadn't already been inside."

"Why are you talking to me?"

"I want to see if you know why we're trying to bring you in."

"Because Fenris bit me."

She nodded.

"You know what was wrong with him."

Her head tilted. "You're the only one he bit."

Stiles stepped forward but stopped and raised his hands when she twitched her gun hand. Poison wasn't contagious. If whatever Fenris had could be passed to Stiles, that made it some kind of infection or virus.

"Tell me what made him sick."

" _We_ did."

She fired.

Stiles leapt aside as soon as he saw her finger twitch. The bullet hit the wall. The woman was gone when he recovered.

Peter crashed out the window above Stiles, shifted and wearing only a loose pair of pajama bottoms that sat low on his hips. He landed in a roll, snarling into the night.

"She's gone," Stiles growled. If he'd attacked, he could have stopped her. She wasn't as fast as the other one.

"It doesn't matter," Peter said, though his eyes scanned the area like he thought he'd find something Stiles missed. Maybe he would. He'd been a werewolf his whole life, not a mere fifty-five hours.

"I should have stopped her. She knows what was wrong with the alpha. They did it to him."

Peter took Stiles' hand and lifted it so Stiles could see the claws.

"You didn't answer my question before, but do you know what else you didn't do?" Peter asked.

Stiles rumbled vaguely.

"You didn't get angry, and you didn't shift. So you don't have to tell me, but think about how it felt to become void."

The claws pulled back. Stiles felt weak in the wake of his power.

But it worked.

Peter put an arm around Stiles' shoulder and walked him in. Stiles lay in Derek's bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to Peter listening to him. Over time, listening to each others' breathing, they began to breathe in sync. Even their heartbeats fell into time. It was almost calming, but not enough to sleep.


	5. This Comes With Pain

I cut this chapter so much that it's currently winning for shortest! I know short updates don't feel like good news, but trust me, you didn't need those extra words.

 **Chapter Five: This Comes With Pain**

 _Friday, December 19, 2014_

"You look like hell," Scott said.

"I was going for creature of the night." Stiles winced. He needed a nap. The comfort of his own pillow had been too little to lull him to sleep last night.

"I've been recording my history class because no one can stay awake listening to Professor Hegel. You can borrow them." Scott grinned as he spoke, so Stiles threw a book at him.

"These are boring enough to do the trick," Stiles said, motioning to the other tomes piled on the table.

"That is one hundred and six years old!" Peter whined, motioning to the book Stiles had tossed.

"Oops." The book belonged to Derek's collection, not Peter's, but Derek _had_ left it behind.

Scott picked it up to read the cover. "Beastes Not of Mythe." He turned to Peter. "Who writes these, and how do you get them?"

"I assume we killed whoever wrote it. The stranger part is that Derek pulled them from the vault before I could." Peter leaned his weight on the arm of his chair. He sat with a book in one hand and a mug of bitter-smelling tea in the other. The books were largely bestiaries. Some were even signed by hunter families. A few had been written by former generations of Hales. Derek had stored those on the shelf above the others.

"Maybe he thought they'd come in handy," Scott suggested. "They are now."

Peter waved his hand vaguely. Stiles made a face. They had hoped to find something that could infect werewolves. So far, they had nothing.

Oh, they knew Lycaon had been cursed for feeding Zeus human meat. They knew arachne had been transformed into a spider when Athena sprinkled her with aconite. They knew rowan protected against werewolves and faeries, and they knew some werewolves transformed by rubbing an ointment of belladonna over their skin, which probably led to them hallucinating the transformation because it was a poisonous plant with psychotropic effects.

None of that _helped._

Stiles made an indistinct agitated sound at the books.

"You have such a way with words," Peter noted, this time not even looking up.

"On the plus side," Scott said, "you're regular annoyed, not freaking out. Not that you've been freaking out. You've been reasonable. This is a lot. You're going through a lot."

"Chill," Stiles said. "It's sort of like freaking out."

"You didn't tell him?" Peter asked.

"I'm giving it time," Stiles said.

"Free hint." Peter set aside his book and leaned forward. "If it hurts to admit, that usually means it's real."

"Then what hurts you to admit?" Stiles snapped, but he didn't growl or shift.

Peter cocked his head.

"Did you find your anchor?" Scott asked.

Stiles shrugged with one shoulder. "I thought I had before."

"Did you not try testing it?"

Stiles pointed at Peter.

Peter smirked, probably because it was his default expression. "I can't afford to fight him again so soon if there's a chance this isn't it."

Scott nodded like that made sense. Maybe he knew how Peter had healed.

"I can do it," Scott offered.

"Are we not working then?" Peter asked.

"We have multiple things to work on," Scott said.

"And Stiles is a thing we have to work on?"

"Stop," Scott ordered. "I don't know what you're trying to do. _You_ know I'm trying to help Stiles."

"Do you want to hear what I know, Scott?"" Peter asked. "I know that Stiles stopped contributing to this conversation even though I know he never shuts up."

Scott turned to Stiles. "Are you okay?"

Stiles shrugged.

"You're not," Scott said.

"I'm fine."

"Convincing," Peter taunted.

Stiles shot him the dirtiest look he knew how. Second dirtiest; he forgot to flash his eyes.

Peter smirked, but smarmier.

Scott's eyebrows furrowed in confusion for a moment before slanting back into concern for Stiles. "I'm here for you, Stiles. We all are."

Stiles nodded.

"We'll take our time, make sure you're good," Scott promised, "but if you've found your anchor, you can go home."

"No, I can't." Stiles shook his head. "Someone is hunting me. I can't let them near my dad."

"You can get more visitors, at least. We'll be able to work together as a pack."

He meant Lydia could come by.

Stiles said, "You told me we're not pack anymore."

"I told you we would be again."

"I've never been pack," Peter said airily.

"Peter," Scott sighed. "Could you give us a few minutes?"

Peter said, "He's been more honest with me than with you. He knows how you judge."

"I'm the one who needs to be honest now, but I want you out of range," Scott said.

Peter cocked his head, no doubt curious, but he rolled his eyes and left. Scott and Stiles waited until they lost track of his footsteps and heartbeat.

"Is he helping?" Scott asked.

Stiles shrugged. "Yeah."

Scott nodded. "I'm worried about you. If it's easier for you to stay with Peter, that's okay. I know you need more than an anchor, and I know..." He paused to grimace. "I know I can't help. I messed up after Donovan. I should have trusted you, and I basically condemned you instead. But your dad wants to see you. He wants to help you."

"I need to be anchored before he's safe around me."

"You can do it," Scott assured him.

"When the nogitsune possessed me, it revealed itself through a riddle: everyone has it, but no one can lose it."

Scott looked unsure. "What was the answer?"

"A shadow."

"The nogitsune wasn't your shadow, Stiles. We got rid of it."

"My shadow was how it chose me."

"We all have shadows."

"Maybe mine is darker." Stiles knew Scott had surrounded his heart with darkness too, but he wondered if the darkness had changed within each of them to suit its host.

"Dark doesn't mean evil," Scott insisted. "Not all monsters do monstrous things."

Lydia first said that to Meredith Walker when she was lost, confused, and acting on the ravings she psychically picked up from Peter's mind as he went mad, trapped within a coma as his body healed from the fire that destroyed his pack.

"But I do," Stiles muttered.

"Just because you've done something in the past doesn't mean you can't move forward."

"It wasn't very far past," Stiles reminded him. "It was Tuesday."

"It doesn't have to be long ago. You never reach the steps ahead unless you take the first."

"What's my first step, Scott?"

Doubt, anger, and disdain marked Stiles' voice, but Scott answered genuinely.

"An anchor."

Stiles bit his thumbnail. "Why did you really send Peter out?"

"I didn't want to talk about what I did after Donovan in front of him, but mostly, he's either just annoying or trying to push me away from you." Scott frowned at the seat Peter had vacated. "Probably both."

Stiles nodded his agreement. "He's wanted to turn me since I was sixteen. Now I guess he means to get whatever he wanted from me then."

"If he really wanted to, wouldn't he have just bitten you?"

"He offered but let me turn him down. Maybe he expected to have more time."

"To make you want it?"

"If not that, then why didn't he bite me?" Stiles shrugged.

"You may have noticed I didn't bite anyone else," Peter said. He spoke loudly, probably in case they hadn't been listening for him at the edge of their hearing range. He must have crept back into range to listen in. When he continued, his voice was normal, "I would have been stronger with a full pack, but I didn't build one. I wasn't even fully cognizant when I bit Scott."

"It's nice that you respect my privacy," Stiles said.

"Why didn't you build a pack?" Scott asked.

"I was consumed with single-minded purpose. The pain of losing my pack hadn't faded, and I knew I couldn't risk that again until I killed Kate Argent."

Stiles asked, "Then why did you want to turn me? You hadn't gotten her yet."

"You're... useful, Stiles, so smart even as a teenager that I knew you'd grow to be invaluable if I could get you on my side."

"Vague," Stiles said.

"I can be that way," Peter agreed.

"I can't wait until you're up to testing my anchor." Stiles frowned but kept the rumble from his voice, barely.

"You're testing it now," Peter said, on the move now. He was too far out to track his heartbeat reliably, but his voice moved as he walked. "You must be especially annoyed."

Scott asked, "Can you tell me the anchor you're testing?"

Stiles shrugged. "Knowing I'm a monster."

Scott frowned but didn't say anything.

Peter laughed, though he couldn't see Scott's expression from the stairwell. Scott turned toward the sound but turned back to Stiles immediately.

Scott said, "I can't make you, and I don't want to, but I think we'll be pack again sooner if we're both more open."

"I don't know why it's working. Maybe I don't even know what I'm doing, but I remember watching the nogitsune pull off its bandages to show my own face. I remember my horror, the last thing I felt as myself. That feeling never went away. At least this way, it's good for something."

Scott hugged him.

Not sure what to do, Stiles hugged back. He closed his eyes and pressed his face against Scott's shoulder. Scott smelled like a breeze blowing in from a field of flowers, sweet but untamed. He worked so hard to seem in control, but Scott was a wild thing too.

"Everyone's anchor is their own," Scott said, "but it's not all we are. Being a monster doesn't define you. It is the _least_ of you."

Stiles didn't tell Scott all the ways they'd both changed since he was bitten four years ago, but he couldn't focus on the ways they'd stayed the same either. He remembered standing in the rain, shouting, begging for Scott to trust him, and Scott taking a step back in fear when Stiles advanced holding his bloodied wrench. This was what Stiles had wanted then. This was what he had needed.

Until now, he hadn't realized he'd still been waiting.

.

Stiles led Scott downstairs to the same space he'd used with Peter. Stiles had changed into sweats, but Scott kept his normal clothes. Peter watched from a doorway where he could slip away at a moment's notice.

"I remember when you helped me learn to stop the shift," Scott said with a wry grin. "I think you enjoyed hurting me way too much."

"I'm guessing this is your moment for payback?" Stiles tried for a playful grin and almost got there.

"The goal is for you not to fight back," Scott reminded him.

"I know."

Scott rammed his fist into Stiles' gut with enough force to throw him back. Stiles hit the wall and the air left his lungs. He shifted before he landed but stopped himself there.

He was a monster again. He could hurt people if he wasn't careful, just like he had last time.

Stiles breathed the shift away.

"Good," Scott said.

Then he grabbed Stiles by his shirt and hurled him across the room to hit the other wall. Stiles grunted at the pain. It faded quickly. Even his bullet wounds had healed in minutes. When he was human, stubbing his toe left his foot aching for an hour. Stiles wished any of that made it hurt less now.

"I thought we needed to protect you," Scott said. "Like somehow we could make teaching you easier, but you're the one who chained me to a radiator and gave me a doggy bowl after I turned."

He stamped on Stiles' back to keep him on the ground. Stiles growled and dug his claws into Scott's foot before stopping himself. He retracted the claws.

Scott continued, "You're the one who got me beat up, the one who hurled balls at me as hard as he could as much because he wanted me to hurt as that he thought it could help."

Scott pulled back his foot and slammed it into Stiles' face. Stiles spat blood and reached to feel at the new jagged angle of his nose. But he didn't shift.

"You're the one who helped me chain Liam to a tree, Stiles. You _know_ this comes with pain. You knew before I did."

Scott grabbed Stiles by his hair and dragged him to his feet. Stiles spat blood on his face but didn't fight back.

 _Scott could take it,_ Stiles told himself, but he had something to prove. The next person to provoke him might not be an alpha werewolf. They could be human.

Stiles would never be human again.

That thought was a pit Stiles sank into, a pit without anger, without joy. Stiles was a werewolf now. Even if he gave up the spark that made him an alpha, he could never be human. This despair was how it would have felt, if he'd been separate from the nogitsune in his mind, if he'd watched through his eyes like a movie screen.

It wasn't better. He'd always thought it would be better.

Scott hadn't hit him again. He held Stiles at arms' length and watched him. Scott had never been as perceptive as Peter, but he clearly saw something. Stiles almost asked what.

"I almost killed someone once," Scott said. His voice was soft. "One of the hunters after money from the dead pool. I slammed him down, ripped off his helmet, and I could feel it as I got closer and closer to killing him. Something was changing in me. I almost didn't stop it."

"But you did," Stiles said. "You're not... you're not a killer, Scott."

"You almost said I'm not like you, didn't you?"

Stiles nodded.

"Do you know what would have happened if I'd killed him?" Scott asked.

Stiles shrugged. "Nothing. He was a bad guy. Everyone would have said he deserved it."

"I would have gotten stronger," Scott corrected. "It's part of what we are that we can steal power. But we can share it too. I let him go, and my pack made me stronger than killing him would have."

"He was human though, right? A hunter. Humans don't have power to steal."

"Humans have enough power to hunt werewolves and kill them," Scott reminded him.

Stiles asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

"You believe that I think I'm better than you because I've never killed anyone. I don't remember that as a moment when I was strong enough to be good."

"It's a moment you were weak enough to be tempted?" Stiles scoffed. "So humble of you to admit even you have wanted to go dark side."

"I can't tell what's going on in your brain when you're bitter and making movie references at the same time," Scott complained. "I'm _not_ better than anyone else. I've made mistakes too."

"You're literally a true alpha, Scott."

"And you're literally the reason I made it there. Do you think I could have fought off Peter and Derek, much less anything that came after, without you? Do you think I'd have avoided killing someone long enough to become a true alpha if I had to do it alone, especially in the beginning?"

"You had Deaton, and Derek was a good guy in the end."

"Peter too. He tried to sacrifice himself to save Malia and me; it was luck that he survived instead." Scott glanced back to where Peter lurked in the doorway, not even pretending not to hang on every word. "He still pushed me to kill."

"I know you're trying to help," Stiles said, "but it doesn't matter that you were tempted since my problem is that I followed through."

"Should I hit you some more, or do you feel pretty confident? I could call Theo to taunt you again." Scott faked levity poorly, but Stiles appreciated the effort.

"Just the thought of his face is enough," Stiles said. "I think I'm done."

Stiles set his fingers against his nose, but it had straightened itself already. Once he washed away the blood, there would be no sign Scott had hurt him at all.

Stiles had always believed an anchor was something or someone the werewolf loved. Even Peter and Derek had a strange love of anger, building their identities around it in an obviously unhealthy way. Apparently, Stiles' anchor was his own inhumanity, and deep in his gut he feared what that meant about his own love.


	6. IDon't Remember

I used a combination of wiki timelines and colethewolf's birthdays and ages guide as references. They were incredibly helpful because I am bad at timelines, and so are the people who worked on Teen Wolf.

 **Chapter Six: I/Don't Remember**

 _Saturday, December 20, 2014_

Saturday afternoon, Malia brought over a Bluetooth speaker and the music she'd discovered since going to college. Scott and Stiles danced with her while Peter rolled his eyes. It was dumb, but Stiles wished Peter would dance too. He felt silly, just the three of them flailing in the living room. He didn't see how Peter joining them would help, but it couldn't hurt.

When she stepped away to speak with Peter, Malia left the music on. Stiles pretended to listen to the pop song she left them with, but he and Scott both sat on the couch to wait. Malia tugged Peter out of sight into the kitchen.

She whispered, "Can you come to dinner?"

"No?"

"You said you'd meet my dad."

"I also said I'd stay with Stiles. One of those has higher stakes."

"Scott can stay. We have a whole pack who can stay. I don't get a replacement for you."

"Henry _is_ your replacement for me."

"If you didn't want to go, you should have said so."

"I'll go. I just don't think now is a good time. We've been attacked twice since Tuesday."

The song changed. It was harder to hear past dubstep, but Stiles doubted he'd get away with skipping it. Malia and Peter weren't gone much longer anyway. Malia tugged Scott and Stiles back up to dance. Peter watched for a moment before shaking his head and returning to his laptop.

Later, Malia pocketed her speaker and dragged Peter out, so Stiles guessed she'd convinced or blackmailed him. Scott ordered pizza, and Stiles stayed in the loft several stories up when Scott met the delivery boy. Stiles' first anchor had worked a little too, and he wasn't ready to take chances so soon.

Stiles texted his dad, **Sorry I'm still out.**

 **I understand. Love you,** his dad replied, adding, **Scott says you're making progress...**

Stiles rolled his eyes at the ellipsis and wondered when Scott had texted Noah. **Maybe you can visit soon, but I'll be sleeping here until I'm not bait.**

 **You're not bait.**

 **I'm a target.** Stiles set his phone aside, ignoring whatever his dad said next. He didn't feel like arguing. Noah wanted him home and safe, but Stiles had made his decision.

"Who's that?" Scott asked as he set several large pizzas on the overpriced coffee table. He went to the kitchen for paper plates and napkins.

"My dad." When Scott was back in sight, Stiles pointed to the pizza. "That's a lot of food."

"Liam and Mason are coming."

"Mason is powerless and untrained."

"So were you," Scott pointed out.

"Yeah, well, I got bitten."

Scott dropped onto the couch and handed Stiles a plate. "Liam and I will be here to protect him."

Stiles scowled.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, but you know Mason was possessed once too. He might relate."

"You couldn't wait a day? Peter says we can fight again tomorrow." There was always a chance Stiles handled it better with Scott _because_ it was Scott.

"You'll be fine." Scott smiled encouragingly and began eating, not waiting for the others.

When Liam and Mason arrived, they settled in like Stiles wasn't a danger to them. The two still seemed young to Stiles, though they were seniors now.

"We should use this place for a party," Liam said.

Stiles snorted. "I think Peter would have words for you."

"Are any of those words 'yes'?" Mason asked.

"No, but he might use 'dismember.'"

"You could ask him for us," Liam suggested around a mouthful of what Stiles realized was two slices stacked on top of each other. He noticed Stiles squinting at his food and said, "I wanted pepperoni _and_ mushroom, but Scott got them separately."

"And this was the easiest way you could think of to solve it." Stiles nodded because of course that made sense to Liam.

"What?"

Stiles let it go, saying, "If you want something from Peter, you'd have better luck going through Malia."

Mason grimaced. Liam stopped chewing.

"What did you do?" Stiles asked.

Liam and Mason shared a look before Liam swallowed and said, "We didn't know she hadn't told her dad."

"We might have mentioned that she's a werecoyote," Mason clarified.

"You all told me so many times that I should tell Mason. We've even told our parents now. I just figured Malia must have told her dad a long time ago."

"Maybe even when she first came back and he asked how she survived all those years," Mason added.

"It would explain why she was in a mental hospital," Liam said.

"But she hadn't told him. He obviously knew _something_ was up, but not what." Mason's grimace returned.

"He also didn't know about her mother," Liam said as his expression fell even further.

Mason added, "Or that Braeden was a mercenary and not just Malia's badass friend."

Stiles broke in, "Just how long did you morons babble in front of him?"

Liam said, "Too long."

"His stunned silence should have clued us in," Mason said.

"But didn't," Liam finished.

"So how's DC?" Mason asked, blatantly changing the subject.

"Subject to the taxes and laws of the government without full representation in congress," Stiles answered.

"That's not what I meant." Mason sounded dubious.

"What about a new girlfriend?" Liam asked with a conspiratorial nudge. "No one ever knows who you're dating."

"I think Lydia knows," Mason said, "but she's not sharing."

"I'm single." Stiles shrugged.

"You've been single for over a year?" Liam asked.

"That's not that long," Stiles insisted.

"That's about six percent of my entire life," Mason said.

"And I bet you've spent a lot more than six percent without a boyfriend," Stiles countered. "Besides, I said single, not celibate."

Mason grinned. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"We're not," Stiles said.

Scott said, "There's nothing wrong with being single."

Liam nodded eagerly while Mason managed to side-eye both Stiles and Liam.

After they finished eating, Mason cleared his throat awkwardly. "Scott wouldn't tell me specifics since it's your life, but he heavily implied we should talk about being possessed, like really heavily. I've looked up nogitsune possession. There's not a lot written about the hosts, but I get the feeling your memories are clearer than mine. Not from the writing, from you."

Stiles shrugged. He suspected Mason's memories were vague. Stiles' were crystal clear.

Mason rambled on, "I mean, my consciousness was suppressed. He could access my memories, but I couldn't reach him. I couldn't do anything, but I also wasn't really aware of it. Even after I knew I was the Beast, I always blacked out. I know what I did, but my memories come in flashes and nightmares."

"I remember everything," Stiles admitted. "I remember it as the nogitsune, not as myself."

"Shit." Mason took a moment to recover. "Everything talks about the host becoming void, not taken or controlled, but becoming."

Stiles nodded.

"That's why everything insisted on killing the host instead of saving them, except for the Shugendō scroll. That might have killed you too; I'm not sure." Mason shook his head at himself. "I'm not helping, am I?"

The pack hadn't met Mason yet when the nogitsune possessed Stiles. He must have done a lot of research and talked to others to know so much. Being across the country had left Stiles more out of the loop than he thought.

Stiles said, "You're fine."

"But you're not."

"I haven't tried to eat you yet."

"For which I'm grateful."

Liam leaned forward to say, "You could try to eat him just a little. I was looking forward to chaining you to a tree on the full moon."

Mason gave him a look.

"What? He did it to me."

Stiles chuckled.

Mason looked from Stiles to Liam and back again.

Liam said, "Control is a hell of a lot harder on the full moon. I may still get the chance."

"You won't," Stiles assured him. "If I need to be locked up, I'll make someone else do it."

Liam pouted.

Mason pointed back toward the kitchen with his thumb. "I'm just gonna help Scott hide away in another room because I don't think reliving your pain is what you need right now."

Liam caught his arm before Mason could stand. "Don't leave me alone with him. What if he eats _me?"_

"I just had pizza," Stiles said, though he made his smile sharp. He was always hungry.

"But not dessert." Liam turned back to Mason with the most dreadful pleading expression. "Don't let me be dessert."

"What am I going to do?" Mason asked.

"Get eaten first?"

"I'm deeply touched by your concern for my wellbeing."

"It will be a noble and delicious sacrifice," Liam insisted.

"Is Stiles eating me, or are you eating me?"

"I think killing and eating someone is a traditional form of pack bonding."

Stiles snorted.

"You disagree?" Liam asked.

"If you want real tradition, always go for ritual dismemberment," Stiles joked.

Liam nodded sagely while Mason rolled his eyes. Scott returned from 'cleaning up' to sit near Liam.

Liam turned to Scott. "Why haven't we ever eaten anyone together? Do you not love me?"

"Liam, I'm not your real dad."

Liam lowered his head as if to hide tears. A car pulled up outside. Liam lifted his head again, tilting it to listen better.

"Malia's," Liam said.

Stiles' whole body tensed. He wasn't sure why until several moments later when Malia and Peter moved close enough to smell their agitation. Their dinner must not have gone as well as Stiles'.

"It wasn't that bad," Malia said. She sounded like she was lying, but Stiles couldn't hear her heartbeat yet.

Peter growled.

"We should go." Liam grabbed Mason and pulled him toward the back staircase. It would take longer, but they wouldn't pass the others on the way out.

"I don't think he'd hurt you unprovoked," Stiles said.

"He's mean when he's grumpy," Mason said. "Meaner than usual."

"Hurtful," Liam agreed.

"What did he do?" Stiles asked, certain they were responding to something specific.

"He dropped Liam down a well," Scott said.

"What is it with that kid and holes?" Stiles asked, fairly certain Liam had even been trapped in a well before.

Scott shrugged. They let Liam and Mason go.

Peter stormed into the loft with Malia on his heels. She gave Scott and Stiles a warning look, though it looked like a threat past the glare she still leveled at Peter. Scott waved to Stiles and excused himself, taking the main staircase. Stiles could have gone to the roof but opted to sit and play on his phone.

"Peter, he was trying to be nice."

"Do you mean when he thanked me for giving you up or when he compared it to losing you for eight years." Peter's voice was dark and rough.

"He was nervous. You're my dad."

"He's your dad."

"You're both my dads," she growled. "You're being an asshole."

"I'm not the one who—" Peter cut himself off with a growl.

"He didn't mean it like that."

"How would you know?"

Stiles lost his game in Hearthstone while Peter and Malia stood in silence. He wasn't paying much attention to the game but didn't dare peek around the armchair to look at them. His phone was on silent mode; maybe they'd forgotten he was there. Maybe he could melt into the chair before they realized he was listening.

Malia's voice was softer when she said, "He didn't know about you and my mother."

 _"I_ don't know about me and your mother."

"She said Talia spent nine months trying to convince her... I don't know. I guess she wanted to convince her to love me instead of kill me."

Peter didn't say anything. Stiles tried to peek but lost his nerve and started another game. Peter's scent was still pained, but less sharp now.

Malia said, "I think that means Talia took almost a year from you."

"I'm sure she justified it to herself as the best way to protect you." There was a sneer in Peter's voice.

"Why didn't she protect you?"

"I didn't need it."

"You refused to tell us how old you are, how old you _were_."

Peter had done the same when speaking to Stiles and Cora about his pack's history with Deucalion's.

Malia continued, "If you were old enough, I don't think you would try so hard to hide it. I think your alpha wouldn't have made your decision for you."

"I was old enough to decide," Peter growled.

"How old?"

"She didn't have the right to decide for me."

"Peter. _Dad._ How old were you?"

"Eighteen. I don't remember it, but I'm thirty-eight now."

Peter's birthday was almost exactly a month before Malia's. He may have been eighteen when she was born, but only barely.

They hadn't said anything else. Stiles leaned over to see Malia hugging Peter. He put his arms around her awkwardly, looking across the room instead of at his daughter. His eyes landed on Stiles. Stiles jerked back and returned his attention to Hearthstone, or tried to.

Malia left not long after. Peter sat on the couch at the end nearest Stiles and stared at him until Stiles stopped pretending to care about his phone.

"You won't say anything," Peter ordered.

"I won't," Stiles agreed. "Except that I don't know if you're ashamed or what, but you don't have to be."

"I'm not ashamed."

"Then what?"

Peter frowned. "I don't remember. I had to subtract Malia's age from mine to figure it out. I don't remember meeting the Desert Wolf. I don't remember sleeping with her. I don't remember nine months of her wanting to be rid of our daughter. I don't remember my eighteenth birthday. I don't remember Malia's birth."

Corinne would have been eight months pregnant at Peter's birthday. She could have been with him, though it was hard to imagine Peter having a party. Had she been Peter's girlfriend or a one night stand that lasted longer when she got pregnant?

"Why are you so weird about your age?"

"Why are you so determined to know?"

"I like to know things."

"I like to hide things," Peter spat.

"You don't have to treat us like enemies anymore, Peter. We know you're trying to do better with Malia. It's not like we're going to form a temporary alliance with Kate Argent behind your back and then try to kill you or maybe make you kill us to tarnish your moral purity? To be honest, your motivations at that point were really unclear. Killing him wouldn't even have made you alpha."

Peter sneered. "Call it a lapse in judgment and move on. Or a relapse if you feel better calling me insane."

"Maybe you _were_ insane to see your mortal enemy and think you should team up."

"I was going to double cross her from the start."

"And she wasn't suspicious?"

"She thought she'd kill me first, I'm sure."

Stiles squinted but couldn't see past the bullshit.

Peter scowled. "Most people find me more convincing than you do. Remember when I went on a date with Melissa?"

"I hit you with my Jeep."

"You do play a convincing dumbass." Peter didn't quite smirk, but the sneer eased off his face.

Stiles picked at the armchair's fabric. He couldn't think of anything else to say, and he figured they'd insulted each other sort of evenly. It had taken Peter longer than Stiles expected, which he took to mean Peter was genuinely hurt, not acting out for... whatever Peter did anything for.

"Did you have any trouble while I was gone?" Peter asked.

"Mason tried to talk about how we've both been possessed by horrible monsters, but Liam accidentally saved me."

"I'll be ready to fight tomorrow. After that, your dad can visit too."

Stiles nodded, chewing at his lip. He'd failed against Peter before, so succeeding would be enough proof, wouldn't it?

He took a deep breath and asked, "Do you think you'd be a different person if you kept your memory?"

"If Malia had lived with me, she'd have died in the fire." Peter's eyes flashed at the thought. "I don't know if I'd be better or worse, but I don't care. She'd be dead."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. You helped bring her back." He paused to consider something before saying, "I misled you Tuesday night. My anchor hasn't been anger for a while. It's Malia."

"Does she know?"

"I haven't told her." Peter stood. "I'll be on the roof if you need me." He went upstairs.

It was barely past eight. Even with his nightmares and generally crappy sleep schedule, Stiles doubted he could sleep yet. Still, he didn't have much else to do.

He was tired of losing phone games, so he texted Derek, **Was your uncle always a dick?**

 **Sometimes he was just annoying.** After a moment, Derek sent a second message, **What did he do?**

 **Nothing.**

 **I don't believe that.**

Stiles sighed and fiddled with his phone, trying to decide how to respond. **Did he ever tell you he can't remember his 18th birthday?**

It took Derek a long time to respond. **I don't remember it either.**

If Peter and the Desert Wolf were in the Hale house, the whole family would have known. Talia would have wiped more than just Peter's memories.

He asked, **Do you remember much about the months before that?**

 **I guess so. I was 5.**

That meant Derek's memories could be naturally vague as easily as tampered with. If Talia had known the Desert Wolf was dangerous, she might have kept her away from the family. Maybe Talia visited her somewhere else. Maybe she kept the pregnancy a secret even before she knew Malia's life would depend on it.


	7. Are You a Threat?

This one makes me nervous tbh. My cat is annoyed with how long I've been working on it today.

 **Chapter Seven: Are You a Threat?**

 _Sunday, December 21, 2014_

Peter didn't bother with a shirt this time, just a pair of basketball shorts. Stiles dressed in the same clothes he'd used for their last anchor test. The blood stains made them useless for anything else.

"You can manage most interactions without worse than inappropriate growling," Peter said. "I think it's time we see how you respond to a threat."

"Are you a threat?"

"Do you believe I want to be alpha?" Peter waited for Stiles to nod. "Do you believe I'd cross anyone, or at least anyone but Malia, if I thought it was in my best interest?" Again, he waited for confirmation. "Good. We're alone. No one is coming. You're less important to me than Malia, and you have what I want. Am I a threat yet?"

"You're wearing nerd socks."

They were no different than the pair he'd worn before, but the longer shorts made him look sillier.

"I thought nerd socks had science fiction characters on them now. These are normal socks."

Stiles just pointed at the strip of skin showing on Peter's shins and shook his head.

"I'm not ruining my pants for you, Stiles."

"But you own these in the first place."

"I thought we were supposed to make _you_ mad."

Stiles shrugged, but he felt the shit-eating grin spread over his face. Peter rolled his eyes.

Peter motioned to Stiles. "You have no room to talk. You wear the same brown pants and a red t-shirt every day."

Stiles ignored that. "You're like someone's dad trying to prove he's the cool dad who can play basketball."

"I am someone's dad."

"Can you play basketball?"

"I played in high school. Are you stalling on purpose?"

"No, you're just adorable. I bet you try to use slang but keep getting it a decade out of date while you embarrass your daughter in front of all her friends."

"In this imaginary basketball dad scenario in your head." Peter crossed his arms. He narrowed his eyes. "I remember you running for your life to escape me more than once. Why are you describing me the same way you might a cross between a bunny and sitcom character?"

"So the first thing that comes to mind for adorable is a bunny?"

"I guess." Peter shook his head. "This is a waste of time."

He spun and kicked Stiles in the face. Stiles hit the floor so fast he didn't know which impact broke his nose. He tried to feel the break but jerked his hand back with a wince. Peter had made it look easy. It hurt more than when Scott had broken his nose the day before.

"I'll get that," Peter said.

He knelt in front of Stiles and reached for his face slowly, giving Stiles plenty of time to pull back. He braced Stiles' head with one hand and smashed Stiles' nose into place with the other. Stiles cried out and jerked away in pain.

"Let me make sure I got it straight," Peter said.

He pulled Stiles back toward him by his hair and ran a finger along the bridge of Stiles' nose. Peter nodded and pulled Stiles to his feet.

"I'll go easier," Peter said. "Pain can reverse the shift, so that was counterproductive."

Stiles narrowed his eyes, or tried to. They'd already been squinted against the pain. "Is this for making fun of your clothes or for breaking your nose?"

Peter set a hand against his chest, appalled. "Stiles! I'm trying to help."

"That sounded faker than the time I hurt my shoulder and tried to tell Lydia it was my elbow."

"Your speech is pretty clear now, but there's not much I can do for your personality."

Peter had a smug grin on his face and held his head at a cocky angle. He wasn't sweating yet, but his heartbeat and breathing had quickened in anticipation of a workout. As much as Stiles wanted to mock him, Peter didn't look like a joke. Peter might pass for a goofy sitcom dad better if Stiles didn't have to stare at his abs.

"Can't you put on a fucking shirt?" Stiles muttered.

"You ruined my shirt."

"You own more than one shirt."

"I like my other shirts."

With a frown, Stiles stood. Peter wasn't embarrassing enough for a sitcom anyway. He was conniving and selfish enough for a soap opera, maybe. And hot enough for anything on the CW or MTV.

Stiles growled at himself and punched Peter in his stupid handsome face. Peter stumbled back but didn't fall.

"That seemed intentional," Peter said.

"It was."

"Good. We need to know you can use your power, not just suppress it." Peter grinned and spat blood.

Then they fought. Peter was fast and strong. They both held back, but if they hadn't, Stiles doubted he could beat Peter, alpha or not. More than once, Peter shouted advice because Stiles had never learned to fight. He didn't know to keep his hands up or anything about footwork.

They were both panting and sweaty when Peter got Stiles into a headlock. Stiles shoved against him, but Peter didn't budge. He tugged at Peter's arm but couldn't free himself. He dug his claws into Peter's arm, but Peter hardly seemed to feel the pain.

Stiles felt his control begin to slip as rage built in his chest. He snarled.

"You were smart before you were strong," Peter reminded him. "Always use that."

Stiles dropped his weight forward to lower his center of balance. When Peter stumbled, Stiles swung him by his loosening arm to smash Peter against the ground. Stiles straddled him and set his claws to Peter's throat. Stiles held back from slashing his throat, barely.

"Much better," Peter gasped. He had one arm pinned under Stiles since he'd reached instinctively for the ground to catch himself after falling, but he used the other to tap Stiles' thigh. "Don't forget to pin both arms."

Stiles took him by the wrist and leaned forward to hold Peter's arm against the floor. "Like this?"

Peter nodded. His eyes glowed steadily, though they had finished sparring.

Peter's scent had warmed. It softened, though his scent was fierce, even at ease, losing its edge no more than a sword did when sheathed. Stiles had smelled Peter like this before. This was still Peter's natural scent, but intensified. It was beautiful, not like the smell of a rose was beautiful, but like a warm campfire. Stiles wondered if Peter had always smelled of burning, or if he had never really escaped the fire.

"Stiles," Peter whispered.

Stiles' eyes snapped open. He hadn't realized he'd closed them. He had leaned forward to drink in Peter's scent with his nose in the crook of Peter's neck. Stiles' hand had slid out of the way, down Peter's chest.

Peter's eyes still shone. Stiles realized his own did too. He wasn't sure he could stop them.

"Does everyone smell like this?" Stiles gasped. He thought Peter would understand.

"Everyone smells different, but in my experience, it's always good. The more interested you are, the more their scent appeals to you; it's like wanting it makes it so." Peter closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. "You smell like cedar and cinnamon, rigid and spiced but sweet without becoming gentle. It's nearly as sharp as your wit. You also smell like blood."

Stiles hadn't noticed past the pain, but his broken nose had gushed blood over his face and chest. His shirt was wrecked. Stiles stood and helped Peter to his feet, too afraid to ask if he'd shifted the mood on purpose. Or had Stiles started it before they even fought?

Peter said, "If this went well, Scott was hoping to have the pack over for dinner. He wants you to re-bond with all of them."

Peter surveyed the cracks and bloodstains they'd left with a frown. His hair was mussed even before he ran a hand through it.

"I almost lost it," Stiles said.

"But you didn't," Peter pointed out.

"Just my dad," Stiles decided.

"If Scott argues?"

"Tell him I'm an alpha now too, and I'll decide my own dinner guests and bedtime."

Peter smirked. God, he smelled good. The smirk deepened. "Do you need to shower first?"

Stiles wanted to make a witty retort, but he was too busy trying to figure out if fire was a scent. He nodded.

.

Stiles had a hard time looking Peter in the eye as they ate. He focused on his father instead. Noah grinned at just the sight of his son. He kept reaching over the clap Stiles on the shoulder, like he needed to make sure he was real.

"It's good to see you, son," Noah said for maybe the twentieth time.

Stiles grinned anyway. "You too, Dad."

"I know with the new moon tomorrow, it'll only get harder for you over the next couple weeks, so I understand I may not see you every day."

Stiles was lucky he'd been bitten when the moon was waning. This was the easiest part of its cycle for a werewolf.

"I'm only really worried about the full moon," Stiles said. "I've seen how it affected the others, especially at first."

Noah nodded. "Scott promised they'd be with you."

"I will have a protective army, I'm sure." Stiles gesticulated with his fork for emphasis.

"They were hoping to see you tonight, you know."

Stiles grimaced. "I know. I wanted to see you."

"I'd have been here anyway."

"Dad, just let me have this."

He chuckled. "Okay, Stiles. So how has school been?"

Stiles made a face. "It's painfully like school. I have to go to classes and take notes and tests. They expect me to do homework and write essays. But I can turn in a lot of them electronically, so jammed printers fuck my life less than in high school."

"You know, I'm not sure what I expected you to say."

"Did Lydia put the presents under the tree for me?"

"I think she stared at Scott until he did it, but they're there."

"That counts." Stiles laughed.

"Will you be home for Christmas?"

"That might depend on if people are still trying to kidnap me. We told you there are three of them now, right?"

"Yes, but Stiles, it's—"

"I'll do my best to make it over Christmas morning. Only a fool would think I'd give up all chance of presents."

"One year you refused to come downstairs because you were investigating how fast Santa would have to move to cover the whole world in one night. You even accounted for the Earth's rotation, sort of. You didn't know much math yet. Your mother had to tell you Santa wasn't real just to get you to open your presents."

"Okay, but it was still Christmas-themed. And Mom let me have cookies for breakfast. Knowing Santa was fake only made me more determined because I didn't see how so many people could have been fooled."

"I knew she was hiding something." Noah laughed. "How old were you?"

"Seven. It was the last Christmas she spent at home."

Noah nodded. They'd brought presents to the hospital the next year. There hadn't been many. Claudia's treatment was expensive.

Peter slid tiny bowls of fluffy brown goop in front of them.

"What's this?" Noah asked, sounding more intrigued than worried.

"Is it pudding?" Stiles asked.

"It's chocolate mousse," Peter said.

With a shrug, Stiles grabbed a spoon, but Peter tapped his hand away and pointed to another, smaller spoon.

"Sorry, Grandma," Stiles muttered. He grabbed the 'correct' spoon and tasted the not-pudding. "Oh my God, Granny Peter, why are you so good at this?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full, dear," Peter chastised.

Stiles stuck his tongue at him and shoveled as much mouse into his mouth as would fit on his undersized dessert spoon.

"I am starting to think Stiles is staying here for the food instead of safety," Noah said, though Stiles noted he was eating his dessert just as intently.

"I'm sure he'd leave if I insisted on teaching him to cook too," Peter replied.

"You should have done it while he still lived with me," Noah said.

"He was usually trying to kill me while I was in high school," Stiles reminded him.

 _"One time,"_ Peter insisted. "Indirectly."

"Well, would it have killed Peter to attack you with a cookbook every now and then?" Noah grinned as he spoke.

Peter visibly held back a laugh while Stiles sputtered.

"I can't believe you'd abandon your own son over a tiny bowl of mousse," Stiles complained.

"There's more in the kitchen," Peter said.

"I hate you." Stiles pretended to glower.

Noah laughed. "I didn't believe Malia and Scott at first when they assured me you'd be fine with Peter." He turned to Peter and said so earnestly that Stiles nearly lost his dinner and dessert, "Thank you for helping my son."

"Of course."

How Noah didn't see the evil glint behind Peter's eyes when he smiled was beyond Stiles.

Then again, maybe he did see it because Noah responded, "Make sure I don't have reason to regret trusting you."

"Of course," Peter repeated blandly.

Stiles went to the kitchen and retrieved a regular-sized bowl of mousse.

"Save some for Malia," Peter said.

"Make some more." Stiles shoved mousse into his mouth with a regular-sized spoon.

"Stiles," Noah warned.

"I'll share with you."

"Better start another batch, Peter." Noah grinned as he said it.

"I see now where Stiles gets it."

Noah shrugged and followed Stiles to the couch with his spoon. Peter started clearing the table, but Noah waved at him with his free hand.

"Hold up, we'll clear that. You cooked."

"You haven't seen your son in months. This is an excuse to stay out of the way. I'll make Stiles pay me back later."

"You will not," Stiles tried to say, but it came out mushy. He was mostly certain Peter understood.

"So, classes are boring," Noah said, "but you must do something for fun."

"Dungeons and Dragons."

"Seriously?"

"Sometimes I do research for the pack, but things were quiet this semester."

"Nothing exciting has happened in the last semester?"

"The new Dragon Age game came out last month."

"You haven't met a single girl the entire time you've been in DC?"

"I don't think there _are_ girls in DC. Or boys. Just statues. Everywhere, statues. Except the National Zoo. There are definitely cranes there. One of them tried to fight me through the fence."

They had finished the mousse, leaving none for Malia, and Noah held the bowl out absently for Peter.

"Please tell me you didn't fight the animals at the zoo," Noah said.

"I didn't. There was a fence."

"If there hadn't been a fence?"

"I would have run for my life. Have you ever met a crane?"

Noah sighed.

"I'm not seeing anyone," Stiles said. "Shouldn't you be happy I'm focusing on my studies?"

"You are not capable of focusing on your studies without distractions."

"I can be distracted by things other than romance."

"Just be safe when you're distracted without romance."

"Dad!"

"I'm not naive enough to think just because you're single, you're always alone."

"We had this talk in high school. Other people weren't around."

"You mean Peter? I'm sure he's absolutely dedicated to cleaning that bowl."

"Dad, he's a werewolf."

"Meaning he has the power to clean a bowl _and_ eavesdrop?"

"Why are you doing this?" Stiles groaned. "I'm going to wither and die right here."

"You're an adult now, Stiles, which means I can look out for you while repaying a tiny portion of the shit you've given me for the past two decades."

"Is this because I'm not coming home yet?"

"I know you're just trying to protect me," Noah said. "But I may not need it as much as you think."

"Maybe I'm protecting the house. Have you seen how much property damage werewolf fights can do?"

Noah nodded. "That is an excellent point."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. His dad had backed down too easily.

"So I ran into Henry Tate earlier," Noah said.

Stiles tilted his head, sure this was leading somewhere.

"Apparently, Malia found her biological father."

"You already know it's Peter," Stiles said.

Noah nodded. "I pretended to be surprised when he told me, but I also admitted I know Peter. Henry said he spoke carelessly when they met for the first time, and he feels bad about it."

"If this is something you wanted to tell Peter, you could just... tell Peter," Stiles said.

"I promised not to meddle."

"Did you," Stiles said flatly.

"But if I were going to meddle, I'd say that it might be worth it to try to talk things out for their daughter's sake."

"Dad, you are ridiculous."

"I just know you're the most important thing in the world to me, Stiles. I wish I could say I don't know what I'd do if I lost you, but the answer is create an evil ghost Claudia because I can't stand the hole you left behind. If there was something I could do for you, and I wasn't, even if it was for a good reason, I'd feel terrible."

"You can stop now," Peter said, leaning over the couch to speak directly into Noah's ear.

Noah jumped.

"You couldn't have warned me?" Noah asked Stiles.

"I was distracted by your heartfelt declaration of paternal adoration."

"I earned that," Noah admitted.

"If we're gossip-meddling," Stiles said, "is anyone going to tell me what Henry said?"

Noah shook his head. "He didn't actually tell me."

"You weren't there because it's not any of your business," Peter said, dropping into the armchair on Stiles' side of the couch.

"Why didn't you get a TV?" Stiles asked, pointing forward to where a TV or fireplace would sit in a real living room.

"I don't watch it, so I don't need it. Derek doesn't watch it, so it'd be a terrible gift."

"Okay, but have you considered... watching TV?"

"Once, long ago, it ended poorly for all involved."

"You know there's a cooking channel."

"You know I don't care."

Stiles pouted.

"There's a TV at home," Noah reminded him.

"But if I went home, Peter wouldn't cook for us."

"I'm sure he accepts bribes of some kind."

"You can't afford me," Peter said. When Noah gave him a look, Peter shrugged. When Noah turned away to pinch the bridge of his nose, Peter winked at Stiles.

Stiles shook his head.

It was nice to sit and chat with his dad again, but it grew late. Noah needed to go home and sleep. He would be up early in the morning to visit Deaton before heading into the station. Stiles didn't ask for details. It could wait until Deaton had answers for them tomorrow.

.

Only when Noah was long gone did Peter say, "Aggression isn't the only thing amplified by the full moon." The way he leered made his meaning all-too clear.

Stiles scrunched his face up. "Please don't tell me about it."

"You shouldn't be embarrassed. Living with werewolves makes it all but impossible to hide when you need... release." He smirked at the end to emphasize the euphemism.

"You tried to hide it too, jerking off late at night when I was asleep."

"Since your response was to run away and get shot at, I'm going to say I was right and only misjudged the timing."

Stiles' face couldn't possibly be as red as it felt. "I don't know how to block out my senses yet. I tried to not notice."

"I don't mind you noticing."

Stiles' mouth went dry. "That does not help."

"It's not supposed to."

"I can't tell if you're teasing me or hitting on me."

"Both."

Stiles' brain stopped making new thoughts long enough for Peter to step forward and put his hands on Stiles' hips.

"What about you, Stiles? Are you afraid to look at me because you reacted to a scent on someone you have no interest in or because..." He stepped closer.

Stiles jerked back and stumbled.

Peter caught him but stepped back once Stiles was steady.

"Relax," Peter said. "You're okay."

Stiles shook his head.

"I'm not going to force—"

"That's not what I mean," Stiles interrupted. "You're laying it on a little thick, but that's sort of what I'm used to at this point. The closest I've had to a relationship for a while is a lot like this. I find someone who finds me, and we enjoy that for a night, maybe a few nights, separately, not continuously. Whatever. The difference is I know you."

"Stiles, that was almost poetic until you lost track of it."

"Peter," Stiles complained.

"If we were enemies, you wouldn't be staying with me. I know we haven't been friends, but we are allies. I'm not going to ruin your life, whatever happens or doesn't."

"I don't know what I want to happen."

"Nothing has to."

Stiles couldn't tell if Peter meant that as reassurance or threat.

"What do you want to happen?" Stiles asked.

Peter paused, eyeing Stiles like he suspected a trick. He tilted his head and licked his lips before answering, "I didn't take advantage of the shower like you did, so I'm going to go to my room. You do what you want, but what I want is for you to listen. I want you to smell me and think about me wanting you. And I want you to give me something worth wanting too."

Stiles clenched his jaw shut, but Peter walked away without waiting for a response. Stiles eyed the stairs. The December air would be cold. He could wait it out and cool down.

He glanced back at Peter, who winked before disappearing behind his door. Stiles imagined standing alone on the cold roof. He imagined Peter on the floor between Stiles' legs, this time without the blood. He imagined how disappointed in him his friends and father would be.

He didn't have to imagine Peter's scent or his voice taunting, "Are you going to stay with me, Stiles?"

There was a nightstand by the bed with a box of tissues that Stiles didn't remember being there before. Stiles left his pants on the floor and hoped this wasn't a prank because he'd fallen for it.

"Don't worry," Peter whispered. "You smell better when you don't worry."

Stiles could wait till morning to worry.


	8. Becoming Something New

There will be 16 chapters total, so we're at the midpoint!

Hey, I just realized, my scenebreak marks haven't been posting to ffn. I bet that's been confusing, and I'm sorry. I'll go back and fix them. It looks like asterisks and dashes are both out, so the breaks will be a line with just a period. This feels like a good time to mention I'm on AO3 with the same name and don't have these problems there

 **Chapter Eight: Becoming Something New**

 _Monday, December 22, 2014_

Stiles woke to the smell of bacon. He had his pants on and made it to the kitchen before waking enough to realize he'd have to talk to Peter.

"You can have _one,"_ Peter said, pointing to the plate of bacon covered by a paper towel.

Stiles took his one before asking, "What if I'd starve to death by eating fewer than two?"

Peter laughed. "If your life depends on it, I guess I can't stop you."

He smiled warmly but spared Stiles only a brief glance. He was focused on flipping an omelet.

"Have you always liked cooking?" Stiles asked.

"Not really, but I've always wanted to know everything, and everything includes cooking. Living alone gave me time to practice."

Stiles finished his second slice of bacon and sneaked a third while Peter wasn't looking.

Peter wore sleep pants and slipper socks with sandals, but no shirt. He had an apron, probably to protect his chest from bacon grease. Just because he could heal didn't stop it from hurting.

"I thought you were into fashion," Stiles said.

"Who the hell would have said that?"

"You intimidated Allison by choosing her dress for the winter formal."

"I can't believe she told on me. We were mortal enemies, but she followed my advice. That should mean something."

"So you _are_ into fashion."

Peter sighed and handed Stiles his omelet. Stiles grabbed a fork and sat on the counter to eat while Peter finished cooking his own breakfast.

"It's also part of everything."

"I'm just curious because that means you know how much of a dork you are."

"I haven't even gotten dressed today."

"Don't worry. I think it's cute."

Peter smiled at his cooking again.

"That's adorable too," Stiles said. "How does a serial killer have a smile like that?"

"I was born with this smile. Homicide came later."

"I mean if you're gonna get all logical," Stiles grumbled, though the sound was muffled by a mouthful of egg and heaven. "This is too good. Will you be my personal chef?"

"Only so long as you live with me. Once you move out, you're on your own."

"There's always a catch."

"Most chefs demand wages."

"Those assholes."

Peter laughed. He sat on the counter beside Stiles to eat instead of moving everything to the dining table. Their knees touched, and neither one mentioned it. Stiles had never seen Peter so relaxed.

"I feel like I'm in an orange juice commercial," Stiles said.

"I can make fifty percent more of that vision come true if you're thirsty." Peter raised an eyebrow but kept his smile.

Stiles laughed. He didn't answer, but Peter brought him a glass of orange juice. He set the bottle on the windowsill and lifted his hands to frame the shot with Stiles as he sipped his juice. Stiles laughed so hard he spat on Peter.

"Sorry," Stiles snorted. "It wasn't even that funny."

"Is that your idea of an apology?" Peter crossed his arms over his now-dirty apron.

"I didn't mean you're not funny. I meant I shouldn't have spat on you. Spat? Is that right? Spitted is wrong, I think."

"Spat is fine."

"I got it on your face." Stiles reached out to brush juice pulp from Peter's stubble.

Peter caught his hand and tugged Stiles close. "I could be persuaded to forgive you."

"I'm just going to ruin everything instead." Stiles took a step back.

"We can just be, Stiles. We don't have to talk about it."

"You're only saying that because you think you're irresistible."

"I am."

Stiles shook his head. "I'm not going to lie; this was sort of a perfect morning, but this isn't the side of you I know, Peter."

Peter sighed. "Are you concerned because remembering what I've done horrifies you or because you're worried it will horrify everyone else?"

"I don't know."

"You know I can keep a secret." Peter grinned mischievously.

"That's not the problem."

"You need time, right? That's what you're trying to say, maybe with a dash of guilt for stringing me along until you decide I'm too old and evil for you to be attracted to me?"

Stiles bit his lip. He wouldn't have said it like that, but Peter wasn't wrong.

"I'm not proposing, Stiles, and I'm not foolish enough to think every—or, really, any—romantic or sexual encounter is a chance to find my life partner. But we could... enjoy this a little and see where it goes."

"How long have you been single?" Stiles asked, eyes narrowed.

"If this was about desperation, I'd pick someone up." Peter shook his head. "Is it that hard to believe I'm attracted to you?"

"I can smell that you are."

Peter's scent was still strong, but less intense than when he was turned on. It wasn't different altogether, and it still made Stiles want to melt into Peter's arms. To be fair, Peter's arms left Stiles feeling the same. Peter hadn't changed, but everything about how Stiles perceived him had. Scent was just the one thing that had been more subconscious as a human, so it seemed the starkest difference now.

"Do you think I'm going to betray you somehow?" Peter asked.

"I don't know." Stiles frowned. "Do you remember the first time we met?"

"In which form?"

"I met you as a beast alpha on a rampage. I'm not sure your mind had even recovered as much as your body by the time we killed you. My memories of you are of a broken madman."

"Not all of them."

"Do you remember what I said when you offered me the bite?"

"Of course."

"If I want you, does that mean you were right?"

"No, I was right because you were lying. Sex has nothing to do with it." He frowned. "Are you afraid you can be a bad person based on who you're attracted to?" He twisted his mouth in distaste.

"You can be attracted to someone without being with them."

"You're misplacing your worry intentionally. If I was that terrible, you wouldn't have been here in the first place."

"Using you is different from sleeping with you."

"It doesn't have to be."

"Don't you want more than that?"

"Assume I always want more. It'll save you from complacency in the rare event that you're wrong." He took Stiles' hand again and it held it between them. "When I told you what I wanted last night, you gave me exactly that. I've never thought you had trouble turning people down. Was I wrong?"

"Am I not turning you down right now?"

"You are carefully avoiding the words for that, maybe in case you want more when you're horny again."

"That's not—"

Peter kissed Stiles' fingertips. "You seemed happy while we were eating."

"I was."

"Do you want to feel like that again?"

"Of course I do."

"You were turned on last night. Do you want to feel that again?"

Stiles nodded.

"You're just worried about feeling them with _me."_

"I'm sorry."

"Can I try something, and if you don't like it, I'll leave you be?"

"You'd leave me alone anyway if I really asked you to." Stiles knew he was right, though it was almost strange to realize he was saying it about Peter Hale.

"Yes," Peter said, though it hadn't been a question.

"You want to kiss me."

It was more intimate than what they'd done already. Maybe he would balk even though he hadn't before, or maybe he would fall in love with the touch of Peter's lips. Stiles suspected Peter was counting on the latter. Stiles didn't know which it would be.

"Can I kiss you?" Peter almost smiled as he asked.

With a nod, Stiles stepped closer. Peter set one hand on the small of Stiles' back while the other cupped his cheek. They leaned together. Stiles stretched his arm around Peter's back to pull his warmth closer.

Their lips touched.

Peter softened at Stiles' touch, relaxed but wholly focused on Stiles, who melted against him. It had been a long time since Stiles felt like this. It was quiet in way hooking up at a bar couldn't be. Nothing about this matched his memory of Peter hunting Stiles and his friends. This was still Peter, but he'd come a long way since then. Stiles pulled their lips apart but pressed his forehead against Peter's and looked into his blue eyes.

"Okay," he whispered. "We can try."

Peter's eyes lit, and Stiles' answered in kind. He felt closer to Peter than he ever had, closer than standing in his arms could reach. Once, he'd felt a faint echo like this, but as a human, he hadn't been fully aware of it.

Stiles and Peter had just become pack.

.

Stiles hung upside-down off the couch. He'd been upright when they started, but Go Fish could hardly hold his full attention.

"I can probably convince him to get a TV," Malia offered, even though she watched barely more TV than Peter, and Stiles was pretty sure she got that small sample from YouTube.

"Pick your battles," Lydia advised. "Eventually, your power over him will fade."

The pale line of a healed-over scratch still showed on Lydia's hand. Six days had passed since Stiles gave it to her. She seemed to have forgotten it.

Scott nodded his agreement but said, "TV is a worthwhile battle."

Stiles added, "We could use it to stream or game, and we can get him one of those Blu-rays of a crackling fireplace."

"I can't tell if that's a joke about him having really generic taste or about how he almost burned to death three times," Malia said.

"Neither can I, and I made it. Got any fours?"

"No. Why do they call it fishing when you draw?"

Stiles made grabby hands at the deck until she drew him a card. It wasn't a four. He nodded to Lydia.

"I think it has something to do with the deck being called the pool." Lydia turned to Stiles with a wicked grin. "Fours."

"Demon." Stiles tossed _three_ fours at her and scowled as she laid her four down with them.

She and the others knelt on the floor to play. Stiles had started there with them, with his back to the couch. On his way out, Peter had sighed and asked if any of them had ever heard of the dining table.

"I know part of what Peter wanted but not how it fits into his scheme, which I assume he has," Stiles said. He hadn't been sure he would say anything, not when it could lead to telling them he was pretty sure he and Peter would hook up tonight.

"What is it?" Scott asked.

"He wanted me to make him pack." Stiles had known from the start, technically, but it hadn't seemed pressing when he had no intention of giving in.

"Which is why he was so ready to play house," Lydia mused.

"But what does that get him?" Scott asked.

"Stronger," Malia suggested.

"He's been an omega a long time," Lydia said.

"Especially given how much everyone claims omegas don't survive unless they find a pack," Stiles said.

"He found a pack," Malia said. "He just didn't join it."

"And he's been protected by having us around," Scott added.

Lydia turned her head suddenly. "You said 'wanted.' Does he not anymore?"

"Yeah, I did it this morning."

Scott nearly dropped his cards. "What?"

"How many times has he tried to kill your friends?" Lydia asked.

"He made me bacon?" Stiles wasn't sure what else to say.

"Peter is a very good cook," Malia said, "and Stiles loves food."

Stiles made a face at her.

"It was sort of an accident too," Stiles mumbled.

"You accidentally made a super villain your pack?" Lydia asked. "Before us?"

"Retired super villain," Malia corrected.

"Is that why he's gone now?" Scott asked.

"He said he was meeting Henry," Stiles said.

"Henry, as in your dad?" Lydia asked Malia.

"Yes," Malia confirmed.

Stiles tapped the floor to draw Malia's attention. "What did he say that upset Peter so much?"

"Does Peter really have a right to get upset someone said something mean to him?" Lydia asked.

Malia frowned. "Dad's apologizing, so it doesn't matter."

"Come on," Stiles pleaded. "I'm his alpha now. I should know what's going on in his life."

Scott chuckled, shaking his head. "I think that's an abuse of authority."

"I'm not a true alpha, so I don't have to be good."

"That attitude is why you're not a true alpha." Scott leveled a finger at Stiles.

"Well, forgive me for ignoring things like 'privacy' and 'laws.'" Stiles used his free and for finger quotes but still didn't make it through the sentence with a straight face.

Scott seemed unsure if Stiles was joking. "Those legitimately matter."

"He says until the moment he needs me to break him into a police station to steal photographic evidence off an FBI agent's laptop."

Scott struggled visibly. "And I still got caught."

"Not for my part though because I know what I'm doing."

"That sounds incredibly illegal," Lydia cut in.

"It was," Stiles agreed cheerily.

"It was to keep my dad from finding out Kira is a kitsune," Scott explained.

Lydia shook her head. "Speaking of the station, Stiles, did you speak to your father today?"

"Not yet. " When Stiles called, his father had been swamped with work. Stiles hadn't called back, but neither had Noah.

"Fenris was injected with mountain ash," Scott said.

"Isn't even touching it supposed to be impossible for werewolves?" Stiles asked.

Scott nodded grimly. "Deaton thinks it would have killed him even if... if you hadn't."

"What about me?" Stiles asked.

"He asked me to get a blood sample from you on my way out today."

Stiles grimaced. He hated needles.

"Your dad tried to track Fenris' movements since leaving Eichen," Lydia said, "but Fenris knew how to stay off the map."

"Has he checked if he changed his name again?" Stiles asked. "'Fenris' was definitely a fake one."

"He said to tell you he's still checking possible leads, but I think he's at a dead end." Lydia shook her head.

"Whose turn is it?" Malia asked.

Stiles shrugged, but upside-down.

"Mine," Lydia said. "Do you have any Queens?"

Malia laughed. "Fish!"

Scott stared at his cards in distaste for a long moment before asking, "Stiles, do you have any Kings?"

"All I gots for you is a long night sleepin' with the fishes, Scottie."

Malia pointed to Lydia. "Jacks."

Lydia handed over three Jacks, one of which she'd taken from Malia earlier. Malia had her points in a messy pile on the floor beside her, but Stiles was pretty sure she was winning.

Lydia turned to Stiles. "Your dad came over last night, right?"

"Yeah, we had dinner."

"With Peter?" She raised both eyebrows.

"He cooked." Stiles shrugged.

"He said you ate my mousse." Malia jabbed a finger against Stiles' arm.

"It was so good."

Malia punched his arm.

All three of them froze, waiting for Stiles' response.

"I'm fine," he assured them. Malia didn't really understand how to joke punch, but he'd dealt with it as a human. He could definitely handle it as a wolf.

Lydia said, "If Peter was there the whole time, I'm guessing your dad didn't share any ideas about Peter's plans?"

"No. Are you going to?" Stiles kicked his feet in the air above the couch.

"I have no idea what he wants." Lydia sighed. She'd had Peter in her head once, but she'd never been in his.

Stiles said, "My best guess was he wants me to help him kill an alpha, but it doesn't feel right. Why hasn't he tried it already?"

"It doesn't account for Malia," Scott suggested.

Stiles nodded. "She's the only thing we know matters to him other than himself."

"You're his favorite person who doesn't matter to him," Malia said to Stiles.

"Thanks?"

"If he built a pack, you and I would be in it," Malia clarified.

"You think he wants me to pass him the spark?" Stiles asked.

"He wants to be your alpha more than he wants to be your beta." Malia shrugged.

"Does he have a second favorite disposable person?" Stiles asked.

"Derek and Cora are family, so they matter to him," Malia said.

"He'd likely see most of the pack as useful," Lydia added, "but I don't think he'd want more of us around than he believed he could control."

"And Scott's mom," Malia said. "I guess they had a date once?"

"I ended it via automobile collision," Stiles bragged.

"He asked her out to get to me," Scott explained.

"Dude, he thinks your mom's hot," Stiles said. It felt weird since he now knew Peter also thought Stiles was hot.

"Aren't you dizzy yet?" Lydia asked Stiles.

"I feel fine."

Peter was back. Downstairs, on his way up. Stiles wished he could automatically notice when people approached, but it seemed random. Peter was on the third floor now, but the point Stiles picked up sounds of approach varied from outside the building to after the came through the door.

Malia said, "Stiles, give me your aces."

Stiles pouted. He only had one to give away, but he'd had it from the start of the game and never mentioned it. "How did you know?"

She pointed at his cards. "You're flashing me."

"Well, you don't have to look."

She turned to Scott, "Do you have an ace too?"

"No."

She drew, while Stiles felt a devilish grin spread over his face.

"Lydia, give me those three beautiful Queens." Stiles made grabby motions again, but Lydia threw the cards in his face. Stiles kissed the Queen of Spades from his hand and dropped it vaguely where the others had fallen. "How about sevens?"

"I filled the pool with piranhas, and I hope they eat you."

Stiles drew a seven and cackled, flipping it around for the others to see. "Looks like I'm eating sushi tonight."

They continued playing while Peter climbed the stairs. Stiles wasn't sure how Lydia knew their extra conversations were done.

When he saw Stiles, Peter stopped, squinted, and tilted his head.

"He realized the blood doesn't rush to his head as badly now," Scott explained, as though this wasn't something Stiles would have done before.

Malia stood. "How'd it go?"

"Fine."

She frowned.

"I got him day drunk."

"Peter!"

Peter made a face but neither explained nor apologized.

"What happened?" Malia asked.

"He wants me to like him too much," Peter complained. "Did you tell him to make me like him? Does he know I don't like anyone?"

"I didn't. Why would I do that?"

Peter shrugged.

"I'm lost," Stiles said.

"I think we're supposed to be," Scott said.

"That doesn't mean I like it." Too much heat made the words terse, and Stiles struggled to tamp it down. He didn't care. This shouldn't make him angry. He was supposed to be anchored now. He'd had such a good day so far.

"Peter doesn't like my dad," Malia explained, even though she had to know that was the only part of the situation apparent to everyone. She turned back to Peter. "My parents always wished they could meet my birth parents."

"No, they wanted a cardboard cutout that would sit there and thank them for how well they loved you." Peter ran a hand through his hair, eyeing Scott, Lydia, and Stiles. "This isn't your friends' business."

"But we're nosy." Stiles faked levity with practiced ease.

"You're upside-down on the couch playing Go Fish. You might be eight-year-olds." Peter shook his head and went to the kitchen.

Stiles shoved himself over the back of the couch and followed Peter. His emotions settled as he neared his packmate.

Stiles asked, "Are you mad at Henry or that your sister stole your daughter?"

Peter grimaced at Stiles. He set the kettle on the stove and started digging through boxes and tins in the cupboard.

"Are you making tea?" Stiles asked.

"Unlike Henry, I don't get drunk."

"So... you drink tea."

"Do you want some?"

"Sure." Stiles hopped on the counter to sit while he waited.

"I need to get an island with stools," Peter muttered.

The kitchen had plenty of room. Stiles suspected it lacked an island more because Peter hadn't finished than because he'd planned a giant open space in the middle of the kitchen.

The others must have been curious too. They moved to where the island wasn't, leaving the cards behind on the floor.

"I thought there were ways to use wolfsbane to get drunk," Malia said.

"Yes," Peter confirmed, "but getting drunk means I'm not prepared to fight back if we're attacked. The idea doesn't appeal to me."

"Meaning you don't have any," Stiles guessed.

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Are you asking because you want some?"

"You know it wouldn't do me much good." Stiles shrugged.

"It might for me," Malia said.

"I don't have any." Peter chose a tea in a purple tin and picked two mugs. One had flying pigs on it, and the other was green.

Lydia and Scott shared a look.

"Do many werewolves use them?" Malia asked.

"It depends on the pack. That wolfsbane is largely useless on its own since its only effect is to slow our healing slightly, but hunters mix it with poison sometimes, which means it's still dangerous to use too freely or keep lying around. The packs I knew confined it to parties, and some of those present abstained for security." Peter focused on his hands as he spoke, transferring tea leaves mixed with some other dried plant from the tin to an infuser shaped like a flower. He chose a different tea for the second infuser, this one with a deeper but more bitter scent.

"Did you all keep it locked up then?" Malia leaned forward.

Stiles got the feeling they rarely spoke about the Hale pack.

Peter answered slowly, "We never kept any and only used it for parties if there were other packs attending who brought some."

Stiles asked, "If you couldn't raid the family liquor cabinet, how did young Hales even rebel?"

"I was perfect," Peter lied.

"You can choose not to heal," Scott said. "Before we knew who you were, Derek said the alpha could hide his healing so long as he was conscious."

"I am incredible, yes," Peter agreed.

"Can we choose not to heal when we drink alcohol?" Scott pressed.

Peter sighed. "Technically. Have you figured out how to stop your healing consciously?"

Scott shook his head. His healing had failed him before, but he had never held it at bay by choice.

"Can any werewolf do it?" Stiles asked.

"Can werecoyotes?" Malia added.

Peter pointed to Stiles. "With enough practice." He shifted the finger to Malia. "I have no idea."

"How long have you been able to?" Stiles asked.

"Long enough."

Stiles frowned. "What about when you were a perfect rebellious teen?"

Peter groaned.

"So tell us what you did instead." Stiles smirked.

Peter leveled a flat stare at him for a long moment broken only when the kettle whistled. He sighed. "All the weapons against us are plants. I found a plant."

"Are you going to tell me what plant?" Stiles raised his eyebrows.

Peter's own eyebrows lowered, but he said. "Marijuana works on werewolves."

"Shit, really?"

"If I find you high before we take care of the ones hunting you, I'll kill you myself. Please believe I won't mind the power."

Stiles ignored the threat. "Is this common knowledge?"

Peter shrugged. "Most assume it won't work without trying, but I'm hardly the first to discover it."

"Why didn't you tell us sooner?"

"It's not useful, and you didn't ask."

"It could be useful." Stiles tried to think of how it could be useful.

"It has never once been relevant."

"What if we got Cora and Boyd high instead of locking them in a room with Derek where they almost killed him?"

Peter looked at him like he was an idiot. "It's not potent enough for something like that."

"So it's basically harmless."

"It is to humans too." Peter shoved the piggy mug with the nicer smelling tea at Stiles.

Stiles burned his tongue taking a sip, but it healed right away. "Even your tea is fucking delicious. What the hell?" Stiles burned his tongue again for another taste.

"I didn't make the tea leaves." Peter shook his head, but he smelled pleased.

"I had somehow doubted it," Lydia said. Her eyes were narrowed, measuring. "But you really are pack now."

Stiles shrugged.

Peter's eyes widened in surprise before turning back to stare at his tea.

"Because they're having tea?" Malia asked.

Stiles was sure Malia believed they were pack; she just didn't understand what had convinced Lydia so suddenly.

"You always hated Peter," Scott said to Stiles.

"I also hated Derek," Stiles reminded him. "And Jackson and Isaac, though for them I never stopped."

"And Matt and Theo," Scott said.

"Yeah, fuck those guys." Stiles frowned at the thought of them.

"Theo's less evil now," Lydia said, though her tone said not by much.

"Ethan and Aiden," Stiles said a moment too soon to stop himself when he remembered the nogitsune killed Aiden. At least Stiles didn't have to remember what it did after they separated.

"They were enemies," Malia said.

"They became allies later," Lydia said, "but what we should be talking about is how he stopped hating Peter, especially since nearly all of the people we just named are ones Stiles still hates."

"I got used to him." Stiles sipped his tea more carefully this time.

"He's not as bad as he used to be," Malia said.

"Such high praise," Peter drawled.

Stiles nudged his foot against Peter's hip. Peter raised his eyebrows. Stiles gave him an intent look because Peter would make a better impression if he chilled.

"Stiles," Lydia said, "do you remember my visit over fall break? We went to that café where you liked to study."

Stiles had gone there mostly because one of the other regulars liked to flirt with him. It was sweet and innocent compared to sneaking into a club or swiping right. Lydia had noticed immediately, though she never admitted to Stiles _how._ He had a feeling she brought it up now to remind him how easily she saw through him. Which meant she could tell he was into Peter.

"Yeah." Stiles' voice was hoarse, so he buried his face in the steam wafting from his tea.

"Do you need honey?" Peter asked, sounding doubtful, as he should since werewolves didn't get sore throats.

"Now I'm lost," Malia said.

"We are definitely supposed to be," Scott told her.

Lydia told Stiles, "Just don't forget you have better options."

An alarm went off.

Stiles snarled at it.

Scott pulled out his phone to stop the alarm. "I promised to bring my mom lunch at work, and then I'm doing errands for her."

"I thought we were dying," Stiles complained. "Can you set a less alarming alarm."

On his way out, Scott called back, "I'll be back for your blood, Stiles."

"That doesn't sound at all creepy," Stiles lied.

"Does that mean I win Go Fish?" Malia asked.

Lydia sighed and took Malia by the arm. "Yes, let's go."

"Is Stiles coming?"

"I think he's busy."

"Go where?" Peter asked, though the others ignored him, opting instead to hug Stiles goodbye.

When they were gone, Stiles said, "If Malia won, Lydia agreed to see the new Hobbit movie with her."

"Without you?"

"I went to a pre-screening." Stiles hopped back onto the counter. "And Lydia's either mad at me or telling me to get it out of my system."

"What?"

Stiles tugged Peter forward to kiss him. His lips lingered against Peter's for a moment before he said, "This."

"She could tell?" Peter pushed Stiles' thighs apart so he could stand between them and kiss Stiles again.

"Mm-hm." Stiles ran his fingers through Peter's hair, wishing it were longer. He liked having something to hold and doubted Peter would complain over a little hair-pulling. "Some of us were thinking," Stiles murmured, running one hand absently over Peter's chest, "the loft would be a great place for a party. The kind without drunk werewolves."

Peter's chest rumbled, though he didn't fully growl.

"I want to spend time with them, but it's safer if I stay here. And this way, you're invited too."

"Fine," Peter growled.

Stiles kissed him. "Thank you."

"I had imagined one of your friends finding out would be the end of your interest, or at least cause a scene."

"Do you want me to stop kissing you?"

"No." Peter leaned in for another kiss, this one long enough to serve as an apology. "I'm curious."

"Your curiosity doesn't always work out for you." Stiles booped Peter's nose.

Peter wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I'm an impulsive creature."

"Lydia and I disagree on each others' partners all the time. We have very different taste in men."

Lydia liked tall brunets handsome enough to be models and didn't seem to care whether they had a personality even though she kept them around for weeks at a time. She usually thought the women Stiles liked were cute, but the men were always too short, too old, or, "Let me guess. He makes you laugh."

Peter said, "I thought you lived in different cities."

"We still talk."

"You discuss your new partners with your ex?"

"I prefer to think of her as one of my best friends." Stiles shrugged, then immediately worried it seemed dismissive since the next thing he said was, "Lydia hates you for what you've done, but we all know Malia's trying to, I don't know, 'family bond' with you. So we feel like we need to give you a chance, even Lydia, which is why she didn't act any worse than the time I slept with a teacher."

"I don't believe you'd have to trade sex for grades."

"I wasn't in her class." Stiles grinned.

"You are surprisingly naughty."

"Television taught me that this is exactly what college students do."

"And you wonder why I don't watch TV."

"You shouldn't be surprised since I'm willing to associate with you." Stiles wrapped his arms loosely around Peter's neck. "If TV is mine, what's your excuse?"

Peter ran his thumb along Stiles' lip. "You're hotter than I remember, and I've never been known to deny myself what I want."

"It's only been four months since you saw me last."

Peter threaded the fingers of his other hand through Stiles' hair. "You grew your hair out. It looks good."

"You mean I was too lazy to cut it. Also I wasn't a werewolf before."

"Mm."

Glass shattered.

Stiles growled as Peter tugged him from the counter to crouch on the floor.

They heard nothing else.

Charging from the kitchen, Stiles found a brick on the floor with paper tied to it. One of the panes on the window had broken, and shards of glass scattered the floor.

"There's a mailbox downstairs!" Peter shouted out the broken window.

"What the fuck?" Stiles growled to himself as he cut the paper's string with a claw.

He unfolded the paper to read:

 **Stiles Stilinski**

Have you experienced nausea, fatigue, unexpected bleeding, foaming at the mouth, black blood and saliva, uncontrollable rage, or death?

You will.

Questions about his medical history and Fenris' death followed in multiple choice format. Stiles headed for the exit even as he read.

Peter snatched the questionnaire from him and read with a sneer. "They know ash and wolfsbane affect you differently, or at least suspect." He jabbed a finger at a pair of questions toward the end of the sheet.

"More importantly, they think they're funny." Stiles scowled. He studied the stairwell but decided it was too far to jump and settled for running.

"His condition was progressive," Peter said, easily keeping pace while reading despite the stairs. "We already know you're affected."

"I don't feel sick. Maybe it was stabilized by being present at the moment I turned."

"You don't feel sick because you're asymptomatic, not because you're immune."

"We don't know anything about this," Stiles insisted. "We don't know that it's an illness or that it's transferable."

"We don't know that you're safe."

Stiles pushed open the door, checking for any sign of the attackers before he stepped outside. "I'm being hunted, so we know I'm not safe."

"We need to take one of them," Peter decided.

"And just assume they'll tell us the truth?"

"I can be persuasive."

"You mean torture."

Peter shrugged.

"You know torture isn't effective because there's a point at which they'll say anything to make the pain stop, so they feed you what you want to hear."

"I know what I'm doing."

"No, you don't," Stiles scoffed. "You've never actually had a chance to torture someone."

"You don't know that."

"I have this strange feeling your sister wasn't down with torture, so should I assume you're counting the time you shared your mad ravings with an innocent banshee?"

Peter growled. "Talia didn't approve everything I did. I learned to hide from her. And I've _been tortured."_

"Did it work?"

"Of course not."

Stiles held his hands to frame Peter as emblematic of the problem.

"Shut up," Peter groaned.

"You wanna see if they're still down here or pretend they never came?" Stiles asked, stepping closer to Peter.

"Damn you," Peter muttered. "We should follow."

Stiles hadn't been sure which Peter would choose, but he'd hoped for a hunt.

"It's a better test than sparring or card games," Peter continued.

Searching the lot and surrounding streets, they found no scent to follow, but Stiles had expected that. He found the freshest tire tracks on the nearest street while Peter pulled up a car—a different one than he'd picked Stiles up in last Tuesday night. Stiles pointed him the way the tracks went, though they'd never be able to follow a single vehicle's trail, especially on better maintained roads with fewer muddy puddles.

"This is as far as I'd planned. You?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, that was all I had." Stiles rolled down the window so he could smell the fresh air.

"I chose right though, didn't I?"

Stiles nodded.

"Because you need to get out or because you need more time to think before we do anything more?"

"Quiet," Stiles chastised. "The key is actually in not thinking."

"If you spent less time thinking, we'd be in bed by now," Peter noted.

"And how much time did you spend thinking before you let me know you were interested?" Stiles asked. "I don't believe for a second I would have noticed a thing if you hadn't wanted me to."

Peter grinned wickedly but didn't answer.

"See that gate ahead?"

They were on a relatively untraveled road approaching the edge of town where Stiles had been bitten. Dirt and rust coated the gate Stiles nodded to, but not the hinges. They practically sparkled. If Peter had driven faster—and likely if Stiles had human senses—he'd have missed it.

Peter drove past and circled around to the back of the lot.

"Are we being stupid?" Stiles asked as they climbed out of the car.

Peter rolled his eyes but pulled out his phone and sent a text.

"We'll have backup soon," he said.

"And we're in another kind of trouble."

Peter held his hands palm-up as if to say there was nothing to be done.

Stiles dragged him to the back fence and grabbed hold to climb, but Peter leapt over it. Stiles followed suit and immediately wondered why Scott didn't leap more. He could jump so high it nearly felt like flying, if only for a moment. When he was younger, Stiles had felt that same rush jumping from a swing at the apex of its arc.

"Not everything about being a monster is bad after all," Peter whispered.

Stiles smushed Peter's face with his hand both to shut him up and clear its smugness.

The lot was fairly large, fully fenced in. Much of it was dedicated to storage and housed a mix of metal and wooden crates. A building stood at the other end of the lot near the front gate they'd circumvented, though Stiles couldn't see the entrance from his spot at the lot's edge. It looked to be a warehouse, likely storing even more crates for more important or less durable cargo. Stiles couldn't afford to check what, if anything, the crates held.

They crept along near the outer fence, approaching the warehouse indirectly to avoid walking through the open. A glint of light reflected off a tripwire, and the soil past it had been disturbed. Some leaves had been scattered overtop to disguise it, but Stiles' eyes were too sharp to fool so easily. He and Peter went around.

Traps seemed a good sign. They meant someone here had something to hide. It could be someone else. Villains often attacked Beacon Hills in disparate groups. Peter and Kate. Gerard and Matt (and Jackson as the kanima). The darach and the alpha pack. The oni hadn't technically been villains until Noshiko lost control of them, so the nogitsune broke the pattern.

Stiles needed to focus on the present. He may not detect anything until it was too late. Considering the odds of them finding the right place so easily without even seeing the bad guys, Stiles reasoned this must be a trap or a mistake.

Peter set a hand on Stiles' shoulder. He crouched and nodded to a window with a light on inside.

Stiles pointed from himself to Peter, then to the ground, and mouthed, "Wait?"

Peter nodded.

Stiles pointed from Peter to the window and from himself to the area around them. Peter nodded and repositioned himself behind a crate to peek out. Stiles focused his senses to find anyone approaching them.

Much of the yard was obscured by the same crates that concealed Stiles and Peter from view. Ants scurried over the barren dirt and gravel. Stiles smelled a cat, but it took a moment to place it by scent alone. Once he did, he focused enough to hear the pat of its paws on wood. A bird landed on the fence too far off for the cat to notice.

Unless the cat was friendly, Stiles suspected it would run if anyone approached. Birds tended to take flight when people came near too. Stiles kept part of his attention on the animals as he continued scanning the yard with his newly empowered senses.

Peter tapped Stiles' arm and pointed to the window. A woman stood partially in view. Her back was turned, but her dark hair fell with no mask to bind it. If she turned, they would see her face.

Stiles scanned the yard again and found nothing changed. He picked a stone from the dirt and mimed throwing it. Peter gave him a deadpan stare, so Stiles pointed to the woman, spun his finger, and pointed to his face.

Peter managed to sigh silently and motioned for Stiles to go ahead.

With a parting squint for Peter's lack of faith, Stiles turned to the building, checked the yard one last time, and hurled the stone at the window. It was farther than he'd ever been able to throw before, but the stone struck directly behind the woman's head with enough force to crack the glass. She spun at the sound.

The Desert Wolf.

Her eyes couldn't glow anymore, but they filled with hatred as they locked on Stiles. She drew a gun.

The cat fled.

"Run," Stiles growled, tugging Peter by the arm.

The Desert Wolf would have to open the window before she could fire, and the cat had been twenty feet nearer the warehouse than Peter and Stiles. With a little luck, they could make it out to tell the others who was hunting Stiles.

A deep, undulating note washed over the yard. Stiles stumbled as a wave of dizziness struck him alongside the sound. Peter collapsed. Stiles roared. He tried to step toward Peter, but his knees buckled. His head felt stuffed full of cotton and compressed to a fraction its size. His limbs flailed uselessly. Still howling with helpless rage, he fell. Stiles scraped his fingers across the dirt, but they had blunt, human nails. He couldn't shift. His arm stretched toward Peter as the note changed, rising and quickening until Stiles lost consciousness.

.

Wolfsbane burned Stiles' nostrils. Past it, faintly, he smelled Peter's blood. Firm hands held Stiles' head in place as another pushed his jaw shut. His teeth slid into flesh, and as blood seeped into his mouth, Stiles recognized it. People tasted much as they smelled, and though tainted with wolfsbane and pain, this was Peter.

Stiles opened his eyes with a roar as the realization jolted him awake.

"Not yet, darling," the Desert Wolf whispered into his ear.

The sound that had put him to sleep returned to drag Stiles under again before he could save Peter.

Stiles hung chained to a fence against a wall and surrounded by a barrier of mountain ash when he woke again. A dusting of wolfsbane covered most of his body, and more fell over his face from his hair when he shook his head. Peter hung beside him, unconscious and bleeding from his left arm.

They had made Stiles bite him.

The Desert Wolf sat outside the ash circle on a folding chair with her left ankle resting on her right knee. With the mask on, Stiles had mistaken her weakness for humanity. The loss of her powers hadn't sapped her confidence. She stared down her nose at Stiles like she wondered at the value of letting him live.

"Malia should have killed you after all," Stiles rasped.

The wolfsbane left his mouth and throat as dry as the ash encircling him. It had also slowed his healing. Stiles wasn't hurt like Peter, but there was a pinprick inside his arm. They'd drawn his blood. He guessed the sheer abundance of wolfsbane overcame his resistance.

"Her mistake is my opportunity," the Desert Wolf said.

"The others know where we are," Stiles warned.

"They gave quite a chase." She laughed, and the sound was knife-edged with cruelty.

They'd been moved.

A door swung open out of view, and the masked man entered.

"He has it," The man said with a nod to Stiles.

Peter and Stiles had been taken out by some sort of sound wave, similar to those Haigh had used against Scott and the others. Stiles squinted at the man. He seemed the right height, if a little thin. Some of the pack might have trouble even remembering him, but Haigh had worked as a deputy with Stiles' father. With an idea what to look for, Stiles recognized him.

"Haigh, you might as well give up the mask too," Stiles said, rolling his eyes for effect. "While you're at it, you can tell me what I've been poisoned with and how the hell you both escaped prison to form this merry band."

Haigh froze, which would have been confirmation had Stiles been in doubt. Then he made it worse by stammering, "I'm not—who is Haigh?" unconvincingly. The man had been a dirty cop, not a con artist.

"Moron," The Desert Wolf muttered.

Haigh cleared his throat. "It's not any sort of infection your emissaries have seen before, so they won't be able to help you."

"So it's an infection." Stiles said.

"You won't be able to—"

"Mountain ash?" Stiles asked. "Fenris had a lot of it in his system somehow, and transferred it to me with the bite."

Haigh sputtered, "It's more tha—"

"Shut up, Haigh," The Desert Wolf interrupted.

"Don't say my—don't call me that."

"He already knows who you are."

"I do," Stiles confirmed.

"He couldn't be sure," Haigh spat.

"You freaked out too much," Stiles said, "so if I hadn't been sure, I would be now."

"You claimed to know Stiles," the Desert Wolf said, ignoring Stiles as she motioned casually despite holding a loaded firearm. "I guess you exaggerated. Don't forget that I know him too."

Stiles frowned. "Bio was never my best subject, but I'm pretty sure infections are caused by organisms invading the body. Is there like magic tree bacteria?"

Haigh had almost said it was more than just mountain ash, Stiles was sure of it. He doubted the Desert Wolf would let Haigh give much more away, but Stiles had to try.

She glared at Stiles but spoke to Haigh, "Did you run the other tests yet?"

He nodded. "Positive on both counts."

She scowled. "Then you have more work to do, don't you?"

"I'm not the—" Haigh cut off when the Desert Wolf interrupted.

"Let's not give Stiles anything else, hm?"

He eyed Stiles and Peter, face still hidden by the mask. "We'll need them both."

"I can take care of them. Go."

Haigh hesitated only a moment before stomping away.

"You don't seem ill yet," the Desert Wolf noted after Haigh was gone.

"Did it progress faster in the last guy?" Stiles didn't feel sick, but he'd known from the beginning that something was wrong.

She shrugged. "We've seen it take as many as eight days for symptoms to manifest, so you've only beaten a small margin of the odds."

Stiles had been bitten six days ago.

Peter grunted as he woke. He blinked at his surroundings before settling his gaze on Stiles. "Last time I woke up like this, Derek was there."

"Peter," the Desert Wolf said.

"Corinne." He managed to say it as if he knew her even though he remembered nothing of whatever relationship they'd shared.

It seemed almost banal to call a monster like the Desert Wolf by something so mundane as her name. Her lip twitched in a snarl.

She covered her discomfort quickly. "How is our daughter?"

"She's taken to college better than high school. Her grades are more B's than C's now." Peter adopted a conversational tone only spoiled by a hoarse cough at the end.

"Wasting my power," Corinne sneered.

Peter continued, "She's having some trouble settling on a major. A lot of students take after their parents, but we're hardly role models."

"I'd say I'm quite accomplished, despite what she's done to me."

"They don't offer classes on assassination, sweetheart," Peter said wryly.

She frowned but didn't respond.

Peter was pale, but the blood on his arm had dried rather than flowing anew. The wolfsbane would keep it from healing. Stiles tugged at his chains, but they latched securely to the fence.

"You won't get far even if you break those," Corinne said.

Stiles nodded, more to himself than her. He could break an ash line, but it took time. And he didn't know what other kinds of wolfsbane they'd had. He also needed to learn more about what had made the alpha sick.

"I thought you worked alone," Peter said, though Corinne ignored him.

There was a third member of their team, a werewolf with strong enough control that she never flashed her eyes. Stiles didn't know who she could be. Kate was dead and blonde and lacked such control. Kali was dead and didn't wear shoes so much. Hayden wasn't evil or the right height or in town. The other female chimeras were dead. Most of the female werewolves Stiles had known were dead.

Stiles didn't have to know both of Corinne's allies personally, but the mystery shifter had been the one to name him on the night they first attacked. Maybe he hadn't known her as a wolf or as a villain, something that made her seem foreign now. Corinne never had allies, but Haigh did. Stiles tried to remember Haigh's friends at the station, but no one seemed right.

He was missing something, but he would catch hold of it eventually.

.

Corinne had largely ignored Stiles filling Peter in, even when their conversation turned to taunting her. She was confident of her power over them. Periodically, she refreshed their dusting of wolfsbane, but it seemed timed rather than driven by their insults. The wolfsbane itched less over time, but thirst dried Stiles' throat more than the powder had.

Eventually, Stiles tried to rest, but he slept fitfully chained up against the fenced wall. He kept his eyes closed, hoping one of Corinne's allies would visit and reveal something when they thought he couldn't hear.

"It's a side effect, right?" Stiles asked when he couldn't pretend to sleep anymore. He had hoped the Scott and others would find them, but he and Peter were most likely on their own.

"Be a good prisoner, a _quiet_ prisoner," Corinne ordered.

She'd claimed to know Stiles, so he didn't consider that worth response. "If your goal involved spreading some infection, you'd leave me out there until I go mad and bite some people like the last guy." If they'd wanted to study it, they could have infected people in captivity, but Stiles didn't suggest aloud that Fenris had escaped.

"I don't know what you expect to learn," Corinne said with false nonchalance. It was convincing as hell. The only thing that gave her away was that if she really didn't care, she wouldn't bother trying to dissuade him.

"You want your power back but can't get it from Malia anymore, so something about this has to give you power somehow." Stiles frowned.

Corinne was too weak to drain power through her claws, but Stiles suspected the surge of power from killing an alpha would return her strength. The other shifter still had her power, which meant she could definitely kill for more. Of the three, only Haigh couldn't gain power by an alpha's death, but all Stiles knew he could want were money and revenge. Studying a diseased alpha awarded neither.

"I recognize fishing when I hear it, Stiles," Corinne said, which Stiles took to mean he was right.

Haigh returned, this time without his mask. As he approached, Stiles sacrificed what little spit he had to the asshole's face.

"It could have been anyone," Haigh complained. "Why did I get stuck with you?"

"Bad deeds earn bad luck," Stiles suggested.

He tugged his restraints. Haigh's form blocked Corinne's shots as he neared Stiles' arm with a syringe to draw more blood.

The fence rattled as Stiles thrashed, but his bonds held firm. It was the new moon tonight, putting Stiles at his weakest. Skipping dinner to hang in Corinne and Friends' Fun Corner didn't help.

"Can you hold him?" Haigh grumbled at Corinne.

"Not physically, no." She didn't bother standing.

Haigh grunted. Peter had started pulling at his chains in imitation of Stiles, though neither of them made progress.

"What's the point of becoming something new if I'm trapped so easily?" Stiles growled in frustration.

Haigh flinched back. "You shouldn't be able to do that."

"It's just a sound," Corinne said. "Even I can growl."

Stiles bared his teeth. Wolfsbane and the new moon weakened him, but Stiles was a monster now, a strong one resistant to wolfsbane. He had tasted power before and recognized it coursing through him, subdued though it may be. He should be able to break these meager bonds.

Haigh stumbled back out of the ash circle.

Corinne thought she could control Stiles with chains and wolfsbane.

 _No one_ could control him.

Stiles howled.

Corinne swore. Pain blossomed in Stiles' torso. She had fired. His voice drowned out the gunshots.

This time his shackles tore free as he wrenched them from the fence with all his might.

Haigh ran. Corinne loaded another clip.

Stiles tugged Peter down. He slammed against the ash barrier screaming, and it exploded outward, knocking Corinne from her feet. Her head cracked against the wall where she slumped to the floor.

As they passed Haigh, Stiles smashed the man's head against the doorframe. Haigh fell at Stiles' feet.

The third partner turned into the hall with a shotgun.

Stiles leapt back.

She roared, voice box crackling with the strain of distortion. It was too loud. Stiles heard her real voice past the altered one. It tugged at his memory.

"I don't have time for you." He roared.

She flinched but didn't cower.

Stiles rammed her with as much strength as he could muster.

The weaponized sound wave that had stopped him before drove Stiles to his knees, but the shifter went down too. He couldn't stand. Neither could she. Neither could Peter. Stiles crawled, dragging Peter behind him. Their enemies were shifters and a coward. If Stiles made it out of range, they couldn't stop him.

It felt like hours before he found the door. The note of the sound never changed to the one that knocked him out. Only Haigh could use it safely. Corinne must have activated the speakers. She may not have been able to stop what she'd begun.

It was dark outside, but Stiles' eyes made out the shapes of trees. He crawled for them, regaining strength as the sound faded behind him.

Soon, he stood and stumbled ahead with Peter at his side. Then they walked, jogged, ran, and finally loped through the woods at full speed. Stiles left a trail of blood but worried that if he stopped to check his wounds, he wouldn't start again.

Peter oriented himself sooner than Stiles and led him back into town. They ran to Henry Tate's house. He lived near the city's edge, almost more in the forest than in Beacon Hills itself.

Stiles pounded at the door and nearly collapsed with relief when Henry answered. Henry ushered Stiles and Peter inside and closed both the door and a circle of ash behind them.

"Is Malia here?" Stiles asked, voice still scratchy from wolfsbane and thirst.

"She's out looking for you."

Stiles nodded. They'd been gone for hours. He'd had longer kidnappings, but the pack would worry. He should have howled for them once he was free. He couldn't howl with his throat so dry.

Henry already had his phone to his ear. "They're here. Bloody, but they walked in on their own." He paused. "Yeah, I will."

Stiles should have heard the other side of the conversation. He was so exhausted he thought one more step would lay him flat. Stiles sat on the floor before he could fall. It would be rude to bleed on Henry's couch.

"Water," Peter rasped, joining Stiles on the floor.

"Yeah, sorry." Henry hurried away a moment and returned with glasses for them both.

As Stiles struggled not to chug, Henry made more calls.

Scott arrived first and dove into a smothering hug. Stiles' hackles rose at being held down—or tried to. He didn't have the energy left. He couldn't have stood even without Scott's weight around him.

Stiles held to Scott and tried to regain enough energy to share what had happened as the others arrived. He managed to choke out the evil lair's location, which Scott relayed to Argent and Parrish over the phone.

"Wait," Stiles grunted before Scott could hang up. "Tell them I saw the Desert Wolf and Haigh's faces. I think I should recognize the last one but can't place her."

"Shit," Scott muttered before warning them and advising backup.

Henry asked, "The people you named, they're monsters you've fought before?"

Peter laughed, though his voice was still rough enough that it came out choked and broken. "You wanted to meet Malia's birth mother, right?"

"The Desert Wolf," Henry said, like someone remembering a name they'd all but forgotten.

Peter confirmed, "Her name is Corinne."

Henry mulled that over in silence as the others arrived. Not everyone came, or at least they didn't come inside where Stiles could see them. His senses hadn't recovered and seemed to be dulling further as he struggled to stay awake.

"The others are posted outside," Scott explained. "We're not taking any more chances. My mom will be here to look at you soon."

Stiles bared his teeth to growl that Scott didn't decide for him, but pulled himself back. Scott cocked his head but didn't ask what was wrong.

"I got Peter's text earlier," Scott said, "but by the time we arrived, they were driving off with you. They left your phones behind to keep us from tracking them. Your dad has them now."

Noah hadn't arrived, but Stiles thought Scott had said he was on his way.

"Whatever made the alpha sick, I have it," Stiles said. He knew Scott wanted an explanation for going alone, but Stiles didn't care.

Scott asked, "They tested you?"

"Yeah, but I think the sickness was an accident. They wanted something else."

"What?"

"I don't know. Something more than any of them could get from killing an alpha."

"Are you sure they didn't try to kill you?" Scott asked.

"Yeah, why?"

Scott motioned to Stiles' body. Stiles was drenched in blood, some of it still flowing despite the towels Scott and Henry held pressed to Stiles' shredded flesh. Stiles reached a hand toward a trail of blood slipping past their efforts to stop it, remembering why he was so weak now. He'd been shot. A lot. It should have hurt, but he'd gone numb some time during the run here.

Scott caught his hand. "Wait for my mom."

"I have super healing powers, Scott."

"Yeah, but there are... a lot of bullets." Scott winced with concern.

Stiles nodded. He wasn't sure how many times Corinne had shot him, but he'd mostly dodged the mystery shifter's attack.

Lydia hurried Melissa through the door a short while later. At the sight of Stiles, Melissa began issuing orders. Everyone but Peter scattered to obey.

"Stiles, I want you to lie back. Scott, stay close and take his pain." Melissa had a more uniquely stocked first aid kit than most, which she opened on the floor beside Stiles after washing her hands.

She cut open his shirt and swore so softly Stiles couldn't hear it. Scott held Stiles' hand, but no black veins climbed his arms.

"He's not in pain," Scott whispered. His voice shook.

"I'll work as fast as I can," Melissa promised. Softer, she added, "I hope it's not too late."


	9. Move Forward

At this point, I'm not sure I'm capable of writing a fic in which Stiles does not nearly die

 **Chapter Nine: Move Forward**

 _Tuesday, December 23, 2014_

Stiles wasn't sure when he passed out, but he woke on the couch with his head cradled in his father's lap. The first thing Stiles saw when he opened his eyes was Noah's worried smile.

"You scared me, Son."

"Sorry, Dad."

Stiles took stock of his body as best he could without moving. He'd gone numb before; he remembered that clearly. He ached now, head to toe. Given how worried Scott had been to find him free of pain, Stiles suspected feeling it again was a good sign.

"Is it okay if I try to sit?" Stiles asked.

Noah nodded. "Melissa said you should lie down as long as possible, but she also said your healing has kicked in and you should survive moving around." He frowned. "You were shot almost twenty times, Stiles."

"Yeah, that's a lot," he grunted as pain lanced through his torso, but he sat without help.

Stiles ran a hand over his chest. The skin was splotched with scabs and stitches, but nothing broke open.

"Don't scare me like that again," Noah said.

"Definitely not on my to-do list."

Noah frowned at Stiles making light of the danger, but Stiles looked away to survey the room. It was empty other than the two of them. Blood stained the rug, but Stiles supposed that was less costly to replace than a couch. His shirt lay on the floor in bloody strips beside a collection of bloodstained towels. They were white, so bleach might save them. Melissa's first aid kit had been cleaned up and set neatly against the wall.

Reaching his senses beyond the room, Stiles zeroed in on the sound of Peter's breathing, slow and even. He was in the kitchen, and Stiles guessed he must be asleep at the table. Malia and Henry sat with him, whispering about the Desert Wolf. Scott and Melissa were on the back porch talking about Scott's class schedule for the spring semester. Stiles found no sign of the pack's younger members, but Lydia and Theo shared the front porch in silence, their scents electric with agitation.

"Melissa wanted a look at you once you woke," Noah said. He paused, swallowed, and took in a long, shaking breath. "She almost lost you."

"I'm okay now," Stiles assured him. He lifted his voice enough to catch a werewolf's attention. "Scott, I'm up. Dad says I'm due for a check-up."

Scott, Malia, and Theo each told their companions he had woken. Theo stayed out front, Henry went out back, and Peter snored a little, but the others hurried to check on Stiles.

Melissa's check-up for Stiles was welcomingly routine. He tolerated a light in his eyes and gentle prodding and cleaning. She even depressed his tongue with a popsicle stick to check his throat.

Then she frowned.

"Clear your throat and spit into this." She grabbed a stack of tissues and held them out to Stiles.

Stiles did as he was told and stared at the black gunk he spat up.

"That looks bad," Malia said.

"Fenris had black saliva," Lydia remembered.

Stiles nodded. Whatever Fenris gave him was progressing after all.

In the kitchen, Peter woke. His chair scraped the floor as he stood.

"I've seen black ichor like this before," Stiles said.

"When werewolves can't heal," Scott said.

"Or when a human rejects the bite," Lydia added.

Peter had reached the living room and stared at the dark mess in Stiles' hand. "It means your body is fighting something, and losing." He tugged up his sleeve to reveal the wound on his arm, a bite mark smeared with black blood. "They made you bite me, so whatever it is, I'm fighting now too."

"Fuck," Stiles breathed. "It can be passed to other shifters."

"Is there a cure?" Malia demanded.

Peter spread his hands with false serenity. "We don't know."

When Corinne and Haigh mentioned other tests, they must have meant tests on Peter, to see if the bite had infected him.

"Haigh said both counts," Stiles muttered to himself.

Haigh had already revealed Stiles was sick, and one other test would account for Peter's infection. That left one more test.

"What else is different?" Stiles asked Peter. "If getting sick is a side effect and they ran _two_ tests, the other must be what they want from it."

Peter shook his head. "I don't know. Except that this is healing too slowly," he motioned to the bite, "I feel normal. Just tired."

Stiles nodded. He felt the same, or thought he did. He'd never established a baseline for normal as a werewolf.

Stiles asked, "Did Argent and Parrish find anything?"

"They got away," Noah said. "We think they have a mobile operation to avoid being found, and used that location temporarily to hold you."

Malia said, "Peter told us what happened."

"You shouldn't have gone in alone," Noah said, grabbing hold of Stiles' arm like he could hold him back from danger.

"I wasn't alone."

"You were outnumbered."

"We called for backup."

"Backup can't help if they're still en route."

Stiles shrugged. It was already done.

"Son, I'm worried."

"You know I'd have done the same thing as a human."

"I worried then too."

"I know, Dad. I'm sorry."

"I don't think you are."

Stiles let his father's accusation hang over the room. He didn't want to fight or to lie, but every response he thought of was one or both. He wasn't sorry enough not to do it again.

Noah stood with a sigh. "I'm already late. I should head to the station."

Melissa waited only long enough for Noah to leave hearing range before scolding Stiles. "I know you think being an alpha means you can do whatever you want, but it—"

"All it means it power," Stiles snapped. "Alphas aren't better or more important, just stronger."

"It's a responsibility," she insisted.

"That's for a true alpha. Scott earned his place. All I did was kill a man too sick to stop himself."

Scott set his hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Alphas are supposed to be leaders."

"I'm too tired for a lecture," Stiles grumbled.

"You still need one." Melissa scrutinized him with a frown.

She gathered her kit back together and left the room, dragging Peter along to leave Stiles with Scott. She leveled a heavy glare at Stiles before she passed out of view. Peter tapped Malia's shoulder as he passed and motioned her to join him. She glanced back to Scott, Lydia, and Stiles but followed Peter and Melissa from the room.

"What's the worst thing you've ever done?" Stiles asked Scott before he could begin moralizing.

Scott paused. "I don't know." His brow furrowed. "I've made a lot of mistakes, Stiles, done a lot of things I wish I could take back, but I don't know what was the worst."

"I killed and mutilated a man because I was angry he took a choice from me," Stiles said. "Fenris wasn't even the first person I've killed, but this time I didn't do it to protect anyone. I was just mad."

"You weren't in control," Lydia argued. "He bit you."

"Having a reason doesn't make it not murder. They call that 'motive.'" Stiles still held the napkin of black goo. He crushed it up and shaved it onto the side table.

"What else would you have done?" Lydia asked. "Nothing worked."

"I could have knocked him out. Hell, I could have killed him in self defense and backed off when I was safe. The point is I went too far, and you all keep trying to make me feel better. I didn't become an alpha because I deserve to be a leader or because I'm a good person. _Most_ alphas don't."

"All any of us can do is move forward," Scott said. "I've only made it as far as I have because I had a pack who supported me even when I didn't deserve it, especially when I didn't deserve it. I've tried to be better every day so I could help more than I hurt."

"Who did you hurt?"

"You remember Monroe?" Scott asked as though Stiles could have forgotten. "Killing isn't the answer, but the problems she saw were real. Stiles, you were there with me from the beginning. I lied to people; I betrayed their trust; I put innocent lives in danger. Half the monsters we've faced were only here because I did something I shouldn't have, to fight the one before. You got bitten because I didn't stop Haigh or the Desert Wolf from coming back and hurting more people. They almost killed you last night, and you still might die because I didn't stop them."

"Because you didn't kill them," Stiles corrected.

It was a long moment before Scott said, "I still want to believe there must be another way, but... I don't know."

"Could you do it?" Stiles asked.

"After my dad shot the Chemist, I asked him about it, about having to kill one person to save another. I know you would have died if my dad hadn't shot first, but I still don't know if that's something I can do, Stiles. I know I don't want to, but that's not the same thing."

"You poisoned Gerard. Did you expect him to survive?"

"I didn't know what would happen, but the ash wouldn't have hurt him if he hadn't demanded the bite."

"Not having his medication might have hurt a bit," Stiles pointed out. "So you at least put him at risk either way." Stiles frowned at the memory. "Mountain ash in Gerard's system kept him from turning."

Scott tilted his head in thought. "It didn't stop Fenris from turning you. It could have to do with Gerard's cancer or with the ash already being present in his system; I don't know. Argent said he used yellow wolfsbane to cure Gerard, but that would kill anyone who transformed completely to a werewolf."

"And we don't have access to any," Lydia reminded them.

"You never got Deaton that blood sample," Stiles remembered.

"We got one while you were sleeping," Scott said. "From Peter too, which will give us another data point at least." Scott looked lost for a moment but quickly summoned his resolved to reassure Stiles. "We'll figure it out."

"Do I have to stay here any longer?" Stiles asked. "I think I've ruined enough of Mr. Tate's furniture without adding more black shit."

"Mom says you can move," Scott admitted, "but not alone. You need to keep the pack around you at all times."

Stiles barked out a harsh laugh. "The only member of my pack is Peter."

Scott and Lydia shared a frown.

Lydia said, "I assume you want to return to the loft."

Stiles nodded. "I won't lead them to my dad's house."

"Beacon Hills is still McCall pack territory, so Theo and I will take first watch." Lydia accompanied the declaration with her most cutting smile.

"I hate Theo," Stiles complained.

"Then I guess it's a good thing he's in my pack instead of yours."

"You hate Theo," Stiles tried.

"Pack business." Lydia crossed her arms.

Stiles shoved himself to his feet even though every part of his body ached and stormed outside to find Theo waiting to let him into his truck.

"I hate you," Stiles told him for good measure, but Theo only winked in response.

Peter joined Stiles in the back seat and spread his legs wide enough for their knees to touch. Lydia rode shotgun, and Theo smirked through the entire drive, even when they stopped at a drive-thru for breakfast and coffee after Stiles complained he was hungry.

The smirk fell when Lydia ordered him to patrol the ground floor and exterior of Derek's building.

As they climbed the stairs, Lydia asked, "Is this why you never asked for the bite? Because you'd be an even bigger dick as a werewolf than as a human?"

"Sure."

"Stiles."

"Lydia."

"What is it you hope to accomplish by driving away your friends?" she demanded.

"You realize I'm dying, right?" Stiles asked. "I don't need to have long-term plans at this point."

"Do you think you're doing us a favor?"

"No."

Lydia was silent the rest of the way up. At the loft's door, she said, "I suggest you relax until you've healed more, but I'll be on the roof. Try to be decent when I check on you, or I'll have Theo do it next."

She continued upward to the roof as Stiles gaped.

"She makes a fair point," Peter said.

Stiles grabbed Peter by his shirt collar and dragged him to Peter's bed.

"I like to be the little spoon," Stiles said, shucking his bloody jeans.

"I'd be happy to oblige." Peter smirked.

Stiles tugged off Peter's shirt and pants and dragged him into bed in his underwear.

"We're still dirty enough that I'll have to wash the bedding," Peter pointed out.

"Shut up and hold me until I feel better."

Peter pulled Stiles close against his chest.

The bed smelled of Peter. Stiles settled into the scent and the warmth of Peter's arms around him, his chest at Stiles' back and his breath against Stiles' neck.

.

Once Stiles had rested, washed up, dressed, and eaten, he ran out of excuses not to call Scott. Someone had boarded up the broken window, but Stiles could waste only a minute staring at it. He made the call.

"I'm sorry," Stiles said as soon as Scott answered.

"You weren't yourself."

"That's sweet, but we've fought enough that you should know better."

"You're going to be a little... all over the place for a while, Stiles. Remember what Isaac was like at first?"

"Bad example. I never stopped hating him."

Isaac had been one of three betas Derek turned and brought into his pack. Stiles had liked Erica and Boyd. Their examples may have served Scott better, but neither of them had survived.

Scott was right, Stiles knew, but Stiles wasn't _just_ newly bitten. He was already an alpha and formerly a nogitsune. He'd sacrificed his life to the nemeton and escaped the Wild Hunt long before becoming a werewolf. He'd trained new shifters and banshees without having powers of his own. He was more than just a werewolf, more than just an alpha.

"I want to talk," Stiles said.

"I'll be there soon," Scott promised.

Stiles texted Lydia while he waited, and she came down from the roof. She shed a pea coat and scarf before sitting in an armchair to watch Stiles and wait for him to speak.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She nodded.

"And thank you."

An indulgent smile spread over her face. "I can still tell when you need a hug, Stiles."

"Why haven't you told on me?"

"There's enough to worry everyone, and it may not matter." She cleared her face and voice of emotion to prevent Stiles reading her. Her scent was sharp.

"Because I don't settle down well or because I might be dead soon?" he asked.

Lydia winced. "My hope is you'll get him out of your system."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "You weren't surprised enough when you noticed." She'd been downright calm, disappointed, but unsurprised.

"I worried you..." She pursed her lips with distaste.

"You knew he was my type before I did," Stiles said flatly. Lydia already had the sixth sense for dead people, but she'd always had seventh, less supernatural sense as well. Hell, she'd known Jackson was bi long before Jackson did, so why not Stiles?

"I'd hoped you would hate him enough not to notice, but, Stiles, you've _seen_ the men you hook up with, right?" She motioned to Peter, who watched with a quirked eyebrow from the dining room as he sipped a mug of tea Stiles had ignored him brewing.

Suddenly her disapproval of his taste in men made so much more sense.

Lydia continued, "If you're worried I'm going to tell anyone, you can relax. I gave up any input on who you sleep with when we broke up."

Biting his lip, Stiles wondered if he should say that he hadn't slept with Peter yet.

Lydia's eyes widened. "Don't tell me you haven't."

She read him as easily as Peter, and without superhuman senses to blame.

"Why does that worry you _more?"_ Stiles asked.

"Waiting means you're invested."

Stiles frowned at that and corrected, "Concerned."

Lydia raised both eyebrows and looked pointedly at Peter.

"We have history. As enemies, mostly, so concern is warranted. And I haven't exactly been back long. And I wasted some of that time nearly dying."

"Stiles, I need you to understand that I say this with love. You would have sex with a lamp if it gave you a kiss. You don't need long."

He laughed.

Peter said, "You two may be the strangest exes I've ever encountered."

Stiles shrugged. "We broke up on good terms?"

They'd considered opening the relationship first because they were horny and lonely at long distance, but they were both too jealous to share. Lydia had forced Stiles to talk it out instead of letting them drift apart like he and Malia had. He'd thanked her for it in the end, just before they kissed goodbye.

The Jeep pulled up outside. The engine sounded too good—Scott must have gotten it repaired with better tools than duct tape—but Stiles would recognize his baby anywhere.

"Scott's here," he said for Lydia's benefit. "I'd hoped to apologize to him too."

"Alone?" Lydia asked.

"I don't know."

Peter hadn't much cared for Stiles' privacy so far.

Lydia considered for a moment. "Your father would never forgive me if I didn't threaten Peter at least a little." She crooked a finger at Peter as she stood. "Join me on the roof."

Peter raised his chin like he meant to argue but set down his mug with a sigh and followed Lydia from the loft. Stiles almost worried about leaving Lydia alone with Peter, but she might actually enjoy describing all the ways she'd torture Peter if he hurt Stiles.

Scott hugged Stiles as soon as he reached him. Stiles returned the hug, grateful his friend was ready to forgive his arguing.

"I still want to be pack again," Stiles said. "I never wanted this power, so it's nothing but stupid that I get hostile when I think of you being alpha over me."

"You remember how domineering Derek was when he became alpha?" Scott asked.

Stiles did. "He seemed happier after he gave it up."

At first Derek had been smug with his own power, but that wasn't happiness. Stiles hadn't known him well enough at the time to tell, but it was obvious in retrospect.

"He thought he wanted it," Scott said. "I don't think he knew until it was gone that he felt more comfortable as a beta."

"I think he knew," Stiles said. "He kept throwing himself into fights he shouldn't have won."

Scott mulled that over a moment. "Like you are now?"

Stiles shook his head.

Scott watched him, brown eyes too soft.

Stiles said, "Derek was the first one to call you an alpha, to call us your pack."

Scott nodded. "When we were protecting Lydia because he thought she was the kanima."

Lydia hadn't known about the supernatural yet. It felt like a lifetime ago but had only been a handful of years.

"When he was alpha, you never really worked with him," Stiles said. "You went behind his back with Gerard and again with Deucalion."

"Derek was going to get more people killed," Scott insisted. "He tried to kill Lydia."

"You're not wrong," Stiles admitted before continuing, "but you could have convinced him. He was never as sure of anything as he tried to seem. And your way got people hurt too."

"Are you worried I'm going to make plans behind your back because you're an alpha now?" Scott asked, incredulous.

"Tell me you wouldn't. Or at least that you feel bad about doing it to Derek. You know you didn't tell _me_ about your plans back then either, right Scott?"

"Stiles, you make most of my plans. We're a team. You're my brother."

"After I killed Donovan, you kicked me out of the pack. We were brothers then too. You came back for me later, but your first instinct was to get rid of me. And even after that, you wondered why I never told you."

"I said already that I've made mistakes and hurt people. I said already I was wrong to push you away, and I'm sorry I hurt you."

"But you don't think all of them _were_ mistakes, Scott. And people have died even though you refused to kill them."

 _"We_ refused to kill them," Scott insisted. "I wasn't alone."

"Then why did you act like it? Why didn't you tell me your plans or listen to me?"

Scott studied Stiles with his brows pulled low. "On the night Peter died, how did you know where we were?"

"What?"

"How did you know where to find us?"

"Your phone. Derek stole it so we could track his location."

"He didn't need my phone. I found him by howling."

"Peter could hear howling, so I bet Derek wanted to avoid it."

"Peter came out of the house," Scott said. "He had to be there before me."

Stiles saw where this was going. "I told him where to go."

Scott nodded like he'd expected as much. "And you knew when you told him that he was going there to kill someone?"

"Yes."

"So why did you do it?"

"To protect you," Stiles said. "And because he threatened me with moderate to severe torture."

"You never told me," Scott said, "so don't act like I'm the only one here who has ever kept a secret."

"I think we both know I'm the better liar of the two of us," Stiles said. "The same night you came to me worried Kira had almost killed somebody, I was desperately hiding that I already had. You wanted to know why I didn't think I could tell you, right? When I suggested Kira might need to kill someone in self-defense, you made it clear that was unacceptable."

"What happened to Kira wasn't self-defense, but I didn't know how to tell you that." Scott stopped, taking a long, heavy moment before saying, "What happened with Fenris wasn't self defense either."

"I figured there was a reason you only talk about my anchor and not what happened."

"Maybe that's why we're not pack," Scott admitted. "Maybe I'm the one who's been holding back."

"And what have you been holding back, Scott?" Stiles had to ask through gritted teeth.

"I saw what you did to Fenris. I saw what was left of him to take to Deaton's clinic." Scott shuddered at the memory. "I was disgusted. Not by the gore, by the person who did that to him, even though I already knew it was you."

Stiles nodded.

"You don't have anything to say?" Scott asked.

"No. You're right."

"Did you really do that to him just because you were mad he bit you?"

"Yes."

"I thought you'd be able to explain..." Scott shook his head.

"You thought I'd be able to rationalize what I did?" Stiles nearly laughed, but the bitter sound stuck in his throat until he cleared it. "I thought I'd been clear that I _hate_ what I did. I'm terrified of who it makes me, Scott."

"After I found out you killed Donovan, you asked me what to do to make it right."

Stiles nodded.

Scott said, "You have to be better. This wasn't better."

"It was notably worse," Stiles agreed easily.

"This isn't a joke, Stiles," Scott growled. "You have to be better than this."

"I don't plan on killing anyone else. I've spent the past week trying to avoid exactly that."

Scott closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, his eyes were calm again.

He asked, "Do you remember when you first called us brothers, when you stopped me from killing myself?"

Stiles hesitated, unsure why Scott had changed the subject. "Of course I remember, Scott."

"The wolfsbane exaggerated feelings I already had. It didn't create them." Scott's brow furrowed. "I've never felt like I was good enough or like I did enough. You're the one who convinced me to keep going anyway, to be there for who I could even if there were more I never reached. I'm not perfect, but I can always try to be better."

"That wasn't what I said."

"You said I'd have to take you with me," Scott agreed, "and I couldn't do that. You told me I was important to you, that I was your brother, and I decided to keep going for you. For a long time, Allison was my anchor, but she wasn't the one who saved me that night. It was you."

"And now you're here to save me?"

"I'm only here to help. I know you're as disgusted by what you did as I was."

"When did you plan on having this talk?" Stiles asked.

"I told you the night I got here that it could wait until after you had an anchor," Scott reminded him. "I wasn't ready for it today."

"Which is to say, you've been holding all this in and letting it simmer."

"I don't want to push you away again, Stiles," Scott said. "I want to help you be the person who won't make this mistake again."

"Which part was the mistake?" Stiles asked. "Killing him? Or just mutilating his corpse?"

"Lydia said—"

"I know what Lydia says," Stiles cut in. "I asked what you think."

"There are other ways to trap a werewolf than ash. You shouldn't have killed him."

Stiles nodded. "I had a feeling you'd say that."

"Do you think I'm wrong?" Scott asked.

"It's hard for me to separate killing him from... bashing a metal bat against his face until I crushed every bone in his skull."

"I don't believe that."

"That doesn't make it not true."

"Maybe you're just good enough at lying to fool yourself."

If Scott could guide the conversation with non-sequiturs, so could Stiles. "Peter said I was lying to myself when I turned down the bite."

"You committed to that decision."

"Later," Stiles agreed. "But when it happened, when I told him I didn't want to be like him, I wasn't as certain as I wanted him to believe. I hesitated."

"There's nothing shameful about that. Plenty of good people are tempted."

"Plenty of people are tempted to commit murder too. The good ones resist."

"You don't have to believe you're a good person now to become one, Stiles. That's why I told you to move forward, to be better."

"Because you don't believe a good person could do that."

Scott hesitated.

That was enough.

But Scott still said, "I don't." It came out raw, like Stiles had ripped it from him. "But you're my family. I love you, and I'm never going to abandon you again."

Stiles felt cold, not surprise. He asked, "How did it feel when you realized you were a monster?"

Scott latched onto what seemed a change in topic. "Terrible. I was scared and angry and confused. I guess part of me was relieved to _know_ , but I hated what had happened to me, what I had become. You saw how desperate I was for a cure."

Stiles nodded. "I was horrified when I realized I'd sent Barrow after Kira, but when the nogitsune was in control, it didn't just take my body. I reveled in my power. The look on your face when I twisted that sword in your gut was exquisite _._ Every moment leading up to it was proof that I dominated a game none of you deserved to play beside me, and I loved it as much as I was capable of loving anything.

"The nogistune's host isn't just possessed, Scott. 'Stiles' as you knew him, even as I am now, didn't exist. _I was the nogitsune._ When you went in my head, you didn't free me from a prison. You ripped me apart and rebuilt me.

"Then, impossibly, I was Stiles again. I can't pry the nogitsune's memories from my own because they are my own. That's almost worse than what I did, knowing it was _me_.

"This time, everyone knows it's me. I did it. I'm the monster. If I focus on the horror I feel when I look at myself, sometimes it helps keep the monster in check."

"It doesn't," Scott said. "That's why you're still afraid."

Stiles sneered. "It's better than the last anchor I tried."

"That won't be good enough," Scott warned gently.

Scott set his hand to Stiles' cheek, resting it beside one of his glowing red eyes.

Scott asked, "Do you know how long you've been shifted?"

"No."

"I think I know why you're having trouble with your anchor," Scott said.

"Then how do I fix it?"

Scott let his hand fall to press against Stiles' chest over his heart. "You have to start here. You have to see more than a monster."

"I don't mean werewolf when I say monster," Stiles clarified.

"I know."

Stiles reached for Scott's hand but stopped short of pulling it from his chest."What if I can't be better? What if this is just who I am now?"

"If it was, your anchor would work."

Stiles tried to find words to argue, or even words to agree. His jaw worked noiselessly as he clutched Scott's hand.

"I'll help you," Scott promised. He took his hand from Stiles' grasp to pull him into a hug. "We'll get through this together."

Something dark and tight in Stiles' chest loosened its stranglehold on his heart, but it didn't let go.

.

Peter set his mug on a coaster on the coffee table and leaned back with a sigh, saying, "There must be both more useful and more interesting things to do."

"This is to save Stiles' life," Noah scolded, hefting a bestiary even as he gave the page he'd turned to an incredulous look.

"I meant them." Peter motioned to Lydia and the younger packmates, who were hanging colored lights and other decorations in preparation for the party Stiles had pressed Peter into allowing.

"We could let you die again, and then you wouldn't have to party," Lydia offered.

Stiles laughed but covered it poorly with a cough and hid his face behind his laptop.

"I swear I'm hurling that out the window before you kill me," Peter motioned to the mass of tinsel and ornaments that Stiles assumed had a tree at its core.

Liam whined, "No, I worked so hard on this tree. Don't take it from me."

"And you're doing amazing, Liam" Lydia said, as she moved onto concealing the boarded up window behind tufts of fake snow and strands of more tinsel.

Malia and Theo had volunteered for patrol to get out of research and decorating. Melissa had gone to pick up food, but Lydia had discretely asked her to get more lights too. Maybe not so discretely since Stiles noticed.

Scott walked through the door, holding his phone. He'd gotten a call from Deaton a while ago and stepped outside to talk.

"Deaton found mountain ash in both your systems, just like Fenris'," Scott said, taking a seat near Peter and Stiles. "It was less concentrated though, and there was the least in Peter's blood."

"So it multiplies?" Stiles asked. "Is that possible? It's... dead tree, not a living, reproducing organism."

"Live tree," Scott corrected. "Technically, what we're used to is ash from a mountain ash tree—"

"Mountain ash ash." Stiles snickered.

Scott ignored him. "It was dead in Fenris' body, but Deaton thinks that's because it died with its host. You have magic from a live mountain ash tree infecting you like bacteria."

"That's different," Stiles admitted. "I'm still not convinced tree cells can multiply in a person body, but go on."

Noah got a call and glared at his phone but stepped out to answer it in the hall.

"Deaton also found deadly nightshade. When he went back to a sample he'd kept from Fenris, he found it there too. The ash was so prevalent that Deaton missed it before."

"Did he not think the issue worth detailed inspection?" Peter asked with a sneer.

"He was trying to look into the ash. It should have been impossible, remember?"

"Poison?" Stiles asked about the nightshade. "Why poison us when wolfsbane does that?"

"They used wolfsbane to weaken you as prisoners," Scott said. "I would guess they did the same to Fenris."

"Deaton found wolfsbane in all three blood samples?" Peter asked.

"Well, yeah."

Peter rolled his eyes. "The same kind?"

"I think so. You all escaped from the same people just before we took the samples."

"You _think_ so?" Peter pressed.

Scott was already texting and ignored Peter.

"Peter," Stiles asked, "are you thinking that the wolfsbane, nightshade, and ash worked together?"

"They don't do any of this on their own."

"So is it some kind of magic?" Stiles asked.

"Was that ever in doubt?" Peter replied.

Scott's text alert chimed, and he said, "It was the same wolfsbane, yes. Deaton doesn't have an archive that can tell him what kind of wolfsbane it was from a cellular sample though."

"Why not?" Peter asked.

"You can start an archive yourself when this is over," Scott suggested. "I'm going to start looking for references to deadly nightshade since we didn't know to check before." He grabbed a book with greater force than necessary, and apparently at random, before leaning back to pore through the pages.

Sneering, Peter turned back to his own research. They had more to look for now, but no answers.

Noah popped the door open to say, "Son, that was the station, I have to go."

"It's okay, Dad. These books aren't going anywhere."

Noah grimaced at the books before turning away.

Stiles closed what felt like his hundredth tab and grumbled, "I swear all these sites are vague summaries copied from the same Wikipedia page."

"What do they say?" Mason asked absently as he wound blue lights down the spiral staircase banister.

"Mountain ash is protective. It was considered sacred. The berries look like pentagrams. It can ward off the supernatural. Blah, et cetera, blah. I need something on _countering_ mountain ash, not another site telling me it's not a true ash." Stiles scowled.

"What about stories of creatures it trapped?" Mason suggested.

"Tried it. Right now I'm trying it with different names for mountain ash. I'm on 'quicken tree.'" Stiles clicked the next link. The site flashed and played music, so he smashed back.

"I'm sure we'll find something. I've run though most of the school library, but I'll keep looking tomorrow," Mason promised.

"Tomorrow's Christmas Eve," Corey reminded him.

"I'll go early," Mason replied. "They should still be open until five."

Stiles followed a link to a folktale with quicken tree in the name, which he hoped would bode well. He skimmed through text about a vengeful ward and a hunting trip before the hero and his men entered the titular Hostel of the Quicken Trees and were trapped. Stiles saw no clear connection between the trees and the spell sticking the men to the floor, but he kept reading. The story didn't mention if the hostel was built from the trees or merely ornamented with them.

The hero sucked his thumb to determine he needed the blood of the three kings who had cast the spell. A lot of fighting followed, and in the end, one of the hero's men beheaded the three kings and sprinkled the hostel floor with their blood. Then the hero still had to await sunrise to regain his full strength.

It wasn't much, but it was more than Stiles had seen yet.

"Here's one, Mason," Stiles said and described the story.

"What was his name?" Mason asked.

Stiles stared at Fionn Mac Cumhail with some understanding of how people faced Mieczysław. "Fee-on Mak Kum-hale?"

Mason left his lights long enough to check the spelling over Stiles' shoulder. "Dude, that's Finn McCool. I thought the thumb thing sounded familiar."

"Does that mean you can explain it?"

"While the salmon of wisdom was cooking, Finn popped a boil with his thumb and then stuck it in his mouth because it was burned. After eating the salmon, he could access its wisdom by placing his thumb in his mouth as he did then," Mason explained.

Stiles also suddenly understood how people felt when he explained obscure ancient rituals to them. "Does you knowing this make it more or less likely that I need the blood of three decapitated kings?"

Peter said, "There are three people responsible, and I'd like them all better headless."

Scott glared. "We're not cutting off anyone's heads."

"Not even a little?" Stiles asked.

"Did you try sucking your thumb yet?" Corey suggested.

Liam said, "Maybe we could take just a little of their blood, not enough to kill them."

Scott grimaced. "You've been spending too much time with Theo."

"I have fewer options when the rest of you are out of town," Liam grumbled like he hadn't become weird friends with Theo before Scott left.

Peter sighed. "As much as I'd love to bleed them out, we still don't know where to spill it, even if this tale is the direction we need."

"The floor could be a metaphor," Stiles guessed.

"But for what? The affected body? The place you were infected? The entire town? A place of power like the nemeton or ley lines?" Peter's voice had taken a mocking tone that set Stiles on edge.

When Peter straightened suddenly in his seat, Stiles realized his eyes were burning red. He took a breath to calm himself. The others avoided looking at him, clearly unsure whether he had lost control. Corey moved to hang decorations on the far side of the tree.

Tense silence still hung over them when Melissa returned with burgers and decorations. Theo and Malia followed her in carrying even more bags of lights, fake snow, and one thing Stiles suspected was a singing reindeer. Peter looked ready to behead _himself_.

Stiles set aside his laptop to eat, though he kept his seat on the couch since the table was too small for them all to share. He contented himself with mentally reviewing what he knew so far while Scott whispered about Finn McCool and quicken trees to his mother.

"Scott," Stiles said as a memory struck him, "Braeden's in town."

"Yeah, I know but she wouldn't say wh—she's hunting the Desert Wolf." Scott frowned.

"I didn't know," Malia assured them before they could ask. "Braeden probably expected my mom to attack me but didn't say so because she knew I'd tell you."

Scott nodded. "I would have expected your mom to go after you too."

Stiles said, "She probably wanted to increase her power before attacking Malia again. She failed pretty hard last time, and she doesn't have the strength to steal power anymore, not the way it's usually done in any case."

It was more a side effect of how little power Malia left her—barely enough to preserve her life—than anything to do with Belasko's talons, except that Malia wouldn't have been able to leave Corinne her life if she'd used her own claws.

Malia was on her phone before Stiles finished speaking.

"Yeah, it's me. We know you're hunting my mom. You should come over." Malia waited a moment as Braeden said she didn't plan to apologize. "I don't care. Just get to the loft."

They finished eating and cleaned up as they waited. Stiles returned to his research, reading different versions of The Hostel of the Quicken Trees to see if any of them said more about the trees. They did not.

When Braeden arrived, she planted herself in the doorway with her feet spread and arms crossed. She said, "You know I can't just tell civilians a federal prisoner escaped."

"You're a civilian now," Stiles reminded her.

"I was reinstated."

"Re-unstated if this goes like last time," Stiles tried out, to general confusion.

Braeden frowned. "Has knowing actually helped?" She waited just long enough for Stiles to scowl. "So I kept nothing of use back, and I had no way of knowing she'd be involved. She usually works alone."

"She was still a threat."

"She's powerless."

"You thought Malia was in danger," Scott pointed out.

"No, I thought she was a target. Malia can take care of herself."

"I can," Malia agreed.

"That's not the point," Scott insisted.

Braeden said, "I have no obligation to tell you anything, Scott. I like you, and we've helped each other in the past. That doesn't mean I owe you."

"Not telling me could have endangered lives." Scott swung his arm out toward Stiles. "My best friend might die because of her, and we didn't even know there was a threat in town until after he was infected."

Braeden shook her head. "This isn't how she operates. It has to be the other one's idea."

There were two others, not one, and as far as Stiles knew, no one had filled Braeden in.

Stiles said, "So you knew about one of the others too?"

Braeden frowned. "The Desert Wolf and former-Deputy Haigh, both arrested in Beacon Hills, escaped from separate prisons within a week of each other. Both last seen headed toward Beacon Hills. Yes, I knew, but he's human."

"He almost killed me," Scott said.

Malia raised her hand. "Me too."

Liam grumbled something Stiles was fairly certain contained no actual words.

"His plan for Parrish was the most useless possible," Stiles said, "but the weapon his men used at the bonfire was a lot like that sonic gun he carries now."

Haigh had tried to burn a hellhound. It hadn't worked out for him. The rest had been more effective, but experimenting on werewolves struck Stiles as more the Dread Doctors' or the Chemist's style. None of them survived to continue their experiments.

Braeden squared her jaw. "I'm not here to get in your way or get any of your hurt. I'm here to hunt two criminals. Can I get back to work?"

"You should work with us. Argent and Parrish are hunting them now," Scott said.

"I'll think about it." Braeden turned on her heel and stalked from the loft.

Malia frowned after her.

Scott took her hand to reassure her. "Even though she wouldn't tell us, I'm sure she had a good reason."

Malia nodded. "She wants to kill them, and you won't let her."


	10. Hale Memories

I feel I could be kinder to Talia in this fic, but there was no one around to defend her since I didn't bring in Derek. That's still definitely on me, so... this note.

 **Chapter Ten: Hale Memories**

 _Wednesday, December 24, 2014_

Peter made cranberry pancakes for breakfast. They fed the night shift—Corey, Mason, and Scott—first. Once they returned to their posts, Peter and Stiles ate, though Peter had prepared more batter for when the morning security team arrived. They had too much company for anything intimate, and Stiles was beginning to think he'd lost his chance. Peter kept pausing as he ate to grip his fork and stare at nothing, and Stiles wondered if that was because Noah, Malia, and Henry would arrive soon.

Stiles nudged Peter with his foot.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Yes?"

Even straining his ears, Scott and Corey were out of range, but Stiles kept his voice low anyway. "It'll be fine. Mr. Tate's just a little awkward. He was basically a recluse while Malia was... also a recluse, but furrier."

"I spent years in a coma followed by a vegetative state and literally went mad, but _I_ can talk like a real person."

"Not everyone's as good a liar as you. Society would not function if they were."

"You're a liar," Peter said.

"Which only makes some uncomfortable honesty more necessary."

"You're impossible."

"See how good it felt to say something true."

Peter chuckled.

Stiles said, "I don't think I can spend the entire day on my laptop without losing my mind. Teach me something werewolf-y today."

"Stiles... you know about being a werewolf." Peter had definitely almost told Stiles he needed more rest.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. He was sick of resting. "I've watched people be werewolves, but that's different from doing it myself."

Peter grabbed Stiles' right hand and set the fingers against the back of his neck, arranging them just-so. Stiles didn't summon his claws for the exercise. He had the strength, but maybe by a smaller margin than he'd like.

Peter said, "You know what this is for, but the placement needs to be exact to avoid causing brain damage."

Stiles asked, "How reliable is it?"

This was how werewolves shared and stole memories. Scott had used it before, but he was lucky not to have hurt anyone. Theo _had_ hurt Lydia, but he likely hadn't cared. Derek, when he needed it, called in Peter. Stiles doubted any of them, including Stiles himself, understood half of what Peter did about the power of his claws.

"That varies widely by individual and circumstance," Peter admitted. "No one can fully understand another's mind, but this can give you a glimpse."

"Do you want me to try?" Stiles flexed the fingers of his hand not pressed to Peter's neck.

"Ideally on someone else."

Stiles laughed, but it had a nervous tinge.

"Does research sound better than scrambling someone's brains?" Peter asked.

Stiles threw a fork at him.

Peter released Stiles' hand to catch the fork. "We'll have company soon, and research will be easier to pause than this. You haven't found anything on nightshade yet."

"It's only been a day." Stiles crossed his arms.

"You spent the evening googling mountain ash instead."

Stiles sighed. "Deadly nightshade is as famous as wolfsbane. It's everywhere online. I ran into a werewolf potion using it even before I looked for it specifically. I _did_ look last night; I didn't find anything new. Did you know tomatoes are also a form of nightshade? Just, like, an edible one."

"Fascinating." Peter's tone said it was anything but.  
Stiles tapped his foot. "I was thinking about the Chemist. The others were cured of the mutated virus he created when they inhaled spores from the purple reishi mushroom. Do you think there's a chance we just need medicine? I do keep calling myself sick."

"I thought of that already. It was in the tea I gave you, but you're still sick."

"You could have said something."

Peter shrugged. "It didn't work."

"You could have saved me the time of thinking of it myself."

"I'll keep that in mind for the future."

Downstairs, the shift change had arrived, so Peter left the table to finish the pancakes. Stiles carried their dishes to the sink. Peter hummed his approval, but pointed back to Stiles' chair rather than let him stay to wash them.

"I'm not dead yet," Stiles complained.

"Are you saying you want to wash dishes?"

"No. I just don't like being treated like I'm fragile."

"Then stop getting shot."

The others arrived, saving Stiles from summoning a retort.

Noah hugged Stiles while Malia pushed a hesitant Henry into a chair.

"There would have been bacon, but Stiles ate it all," Peter lied as he set out a fresh batch of pancakes.

Noah eyed Stiles bitterly.

Stiles groaned but didn't argue his innocence.

Malia frowned at Peter and stuffed a handful of cranberries in her mouth.

"Those are for the pancakes," Peter chastised.

"I know," she said with her mouth full of partially chewed berries.

Peter kept his displeasure to a suspicious narrowing of his eyes.

Malia grabbed the bowl and held it to Henry, but he declined. Stiles leaned past for a handful and crammed them into his mouth while Malia grinned.

"I can't believe you two are supposed to be adults," Noah groaned.

Malia maintained eye contact with him as she smothered her pancakes in a decadent excess of syrup while Stiles failed to smother his laughter.

Noah pointed his fork at Malia. "I remember you being a straightforward girl and much less a troublemaker than my son."

"I am."

Noah nodded, unable to argue.

Henry laughed. "She was a whirlwind of trouble as a kid. We could never find anything. She even used family pictures for toys if we left them in reach."

"They were like flat dolls," Malia agreed.

Noah laughed. Stiles smiled watching him. Too often he had to see his father angry, worried, and disappointed. Laughing was nice.

In the kitchen, Peter watched with a distant, thoughtful expression as he leaned against the counter. He had his apron on and a kitchen towel thrown over his shoulder. Had he imagined Malia playing with Hale family photos as dolls? She would never be able to see them; family and photos alike were lost in the fire years before Peter knew he had a daughter.

When the others finished eating, Peter again refused to let Stiles clean while Henry and Noah discussed security. Noah decided to take the ground floor and Henry the roof while Malia patrolled between them, checking in with each at the far ends of her circuit.

Stiles wondered if they'd chosen too large an area by staying in the loft, but he kept quiet as Peter scrubbed the last of the dishes and the others set out to take up their new posts.

Fidgeting with the snowman tablecloth Corey had spread on the table took too little of Stiles' attention, but if he got up to study the ornaments on the tree or the tiny village on the table by the door, Peter would push Stiles to sit again. Stiles drummed on the table, and when Peter shot him a look clearly meant to make him stop, Stiles drummed harder.

Drying his hands, Peter asked, "Are you sure you're strong enough for training?"

Stiles winced. "I guess that depends on what I need to do."

"Claws out," Peter ordered as he crossed the room to stand before Stiles.

Stiles lifted his hand and hoped he had the strength. His claws unsheathed as though he never needed to doubt.

"That should be enough," Peter said. "This is more finesse than force."

Peter set his hand around the back of Stiles' neck and used it to pull him forward though Peter already stood close. He set their foreheads together and stared into Stiles' eyes. Peter's were a pale blue darkened by a pained shadow Stiles couldn't quite make out.

"My mind is not a place I let many visit anymore," Peter said. "Be gentle with me." He winked at the last, but Stiles saw past the joke.

"You're my pack now. I think that means something different to me than it did to your sister." Stiles didn't know much about Talia, but he did know about memories. Even the ones his mind had repressed naturally, memories of his mother attacking him and claiming he would kill her, belonged to him. He wouldn't want them removed again, not by a werewolf's claws. He wouldn't steal memories from someone else either.

Peter pulled back to nod. "I'll show you first. If you're still strong enough, then it's your turn."

He led Stiles to the couch so they could sit beside each other. He gave Stiles a kiss before sliding his claws into his neck.

It stung at first, but the strain of someone rifling through his mind overpowered the physical sensation. Stiles lost track of his body. Peter never settled on a memory, instead shoving new ones into the mass of Stiles' thoughts.

Stiles saw Peter's claws press into the skin at the back of Stiles' neck, each precisely positioned and angled to interface with his mind without damaging it. Peter did the same to Scott and Lydia, stretching the link between them and into Stiles' mind. Peter shuffled through Isaac's memories to retrieve one taken by the alpha pack. He stole and shared memories from people Stiles never knew, though Peter was younger than Stiles was now. He saw Peter in his early teens as his mother slid her claws into his neck.

She said, "Normally, only your sister would learn this, but it pays to be prepared."

She showed him the memories of his new skill as she used it over the years. Her father, Peter's grandfather, pressed his claws into her neck. His mother, Peter's great-grandmother taught him through her own memories and those that came before. Generations of Hales passed on memories of the technique, uses, and dangers of memory manipulation.

Peter pulled his claws from Stiles' neck.

Stiles thrashed on the couch with Peter's arm across his chest. His breath came in frantic gasps. The memories told him this was normal, though maybe they should have waited until he was stronger.

"It's okay," Peter assured him. "You're safe."

Stiles clutched at Peter's arm, gasping.

"You won't be able to remember it all at once," Peter explained. "The memories will come to you as you need them."

The door crashed open, and Stiles twisted on the couch to see Malia approaching. "What did you do?"

Stiles should have heard her coming, but his pulse pounded in his ears louder than her footsteps.

"Training." Stiles' voice was breathy and strained.

"I demonstrated sharing memories," Peter explained. "He's fine."

Stiles finally caught his breath. "I'm fine."

Malia narrowed her eyes.

"I should try it now," Stiles said.

"Malia, would you like to volunteer?" Peter asked.

"No, I'm busy." She turned away to resume her patrol.

Stiles turned toward Peter and pointed a finger at him. "That just leaves you."

Peter sneered, covering hesitation with disdain.

"You already agreed, and you want me to learn, don't you?" Stiles flattened his palm against Peter's chest.

"My memories are... not always safe."

"Are you worried about me?" Stiles grinned.

"Anyone in their right mind would worry about you." Peter echoed Stiles' grin with a sardonic smile.

"Ah, so you're better now."

Peter rolled his eyes.

"I need to learn," Stiles insisted. "I want to."

Peter cocked his head, considering. "Promise not to share those memories."

"Why?" Stiles asked. Peter should have arranged that ahead of time. Maybe he hesitated now to make up for it.

"Those are Hale memories. They weren't meant for you, and it's not for you to decide how to share them."

"Why did you show me?"

"I made an exception. Promise, and I'll let you in my head."

Stiles considered. Scott had learned the basics on his own already. The memories contained so much more information than Stiles knew how to explain with words, but he shouldn't have to. Under both Derek and Scott, the packs of Beacon Hills often relied on Peter for this. If he practiced, Stiles could help too.

"I promise," Stiles said.

Peter took a deep breath and turned slowly to show the back of his neck. Peter set Stiles' hand there himself but left it to Stiles to position his claws.

Stiles summoned his claws and placed them carefully. The memories helped his mind, not his body. Even a small mistake could hurt Peter if Stiles acted too quickly and assumed his muscles would reenact memories they'd never lived. Peter tensed.

Stiles leaned forward to kiss his hair. "I'll be careful."

He checked the angle of his claws once more before pressing forward. They broke Peter's skin effortlessly and fit into place as Peter gasped.

Splashes of color danced across Stiles' vision, the whole of Peter's memories overlaid in a collage impossible to view in its entirety. Trying could drive them both mad.

Stiles focused on Peter's memories of him, hoping it would feel less an intrusion since Stiles already knew what had happened.

 _Peter stepped into a sterile, white hall to find a gangly teenager, fair complexion made paler by fear as realization twisted his features. Peter had seen him at the school with Scott, his wayward beta's impulsive best friend._

 _"You must be Stiles," Peter said as if they'd only just met. In a way, they had. Peter's mind had healed more slowly than his body, and he had acted more on dark instinct than thought in the school. Even now vengeance burned hot enough in his mind to be distracting, to remind him Stiles, Scott, and even Derek were all mere distractions from the inevitable death of Kate Argent._

 _Stiles, wisely, fled, leaving Peter to confront his nephew. Maybe Peter could turn his distractions into tools. It hadn't worked yet with Scott, but Derek was a Hale. Vengeance should burn in his blood too._

 _Derek would be angry. Peter knew what he'd done to Laura. It tore through his heart in his lucid moments. When this was done, Peter knew his vengeance would turn against himself, though he couldn't say in what form. Kate wasn't the only one who killed the Hales._

 _But Peter could make Derek strong enough to ensure the Hales' future. He'd taught Derek to channel anger into his anchor, though he'd never truly made his nephew a killer. Derek would have to kill Argents; Peter could give him that._

Stiles pulled back. In the memory, Peter believed his mind newly healed, but he was still insane. Stiles shuddered. This felt more like living Peter's memories than watching them. Even as Peter's madness and hatred coursed through him, Stiles maintained his own reactions, in this case revulsion and pity, as much as Peter would hate to hear.

After a moment to compose himself, Stiles pressed forward into another memory.

 _They stood in a parking garage. Peter was glad Scott had resisted the command to kill his friends. If Stiles had died in the school, Peter would never have a chance to make him pack. Stiles was too valuable to treat so carelessly. Peter would have to thank Scott. He wondered if the beta had known his alpha's command was steeped in madness or if Scott entirely lacked the strength to kill._

 _Stiles, given time, could become a killer. A ruthless streak lurked beneath his sarcastic veneer. His eyes were keen, more than merely intelligent. Stiles was a natural strategist and detective. His skill to put information to use dwarfed even his ability to retain it._

 _Terrified as he was, Stiles never gave in to the fear. He deliberately pushed back and cracked jokes, likely to prove he still could. It didn't matter that Stiles' body was weak. The bite would fix that. It was his mind Peter wanted._

 _Peter held Stiles' wrist and felt the boy's pulse race. Some of it was fear. Peter was the most terrifying beast Stiles had ever encountered. Stiles' scent revealed his desire, not sexual, but a hunger for power that warred with his drive to do good inspired by his father and best friend. Peter could see Stiles was capable of so much more than mere good._

 _"I don't want to be like you," Stiles said, resolute even as he lied._

 _The discipline to follow his better judgment while standing on the precipice of power only made Peter want him more. Stiles would make a strong and loyal beta if Peter could win him over. He wouldn't repeat his mistake with Scott. Maybe, when Stiles was Peter's he would turn Scott as Peter had hoped Melissa might. Or maybe Stiles would kill him for Peter._

Stiles recoiled from the memory. He knew Peter hadn't been in his right mind, but the idea that Stiles would kill Scott for him... Stiles shook his head to clear it. He needed a recent memory, something to convince him Peter had healed from this, that he wasn't still the madman Stiles knew years ago.

 _Peter ran eastward through the woods beneath the waning moon and dark clouds toward the sound of Stiles' howl. Stiles must have hurt Lydia. Danger was the only reason Peter saw for Lydia to call him instead of Liam, even with Scott and Malia out of town. It wasn't the first time Lydia had called on Peter to help her pack, and he suspected it wouldn't be the last. He'd left her with too strong an impression of his capabilities alongside the scars to her psyche._

 _Stiles leapt through the trees ahead. He was gorgeous. Red eyes glowed brighter than the moon and stared wide with terror and fury. Blood made black by the darkness covered him. Much belonged to the man he killed, but a gouge from Stiles' neck still bled. The flesh shifted slowly as it healed. By morning, there wouldn't even be a scar._

 _Peter sat on the wet ground to make himself seem submissive. Too much power coursed through Stiles. Few alphas remained unchanged by their strength. Peter knew too well how overwhelming it could be and nearly flinched at the memory. He'd been mad before he became an alpha; it wasn't the same._

 _Stiles would need Peter to defer to him now. Just because Peter doubted Stiles had the training or control to kill him didn't mean Peter welcomed the idea of a fight. If Stiles was too far out of control, Peter might not be able to subdue him or escape. Peter didn't want to hurt Stiles, but even if he did, killing Stiles would guarantee Peter's own death at the hands of Scott's pack. Lydia, most likely. Scott still couldn't bring himself to kill, and Malia would hesitate over killing her father even after Peter's betrayal. Lydia wouldn't._

 _Stiles tilted his head to study Peter._

 _Peter nearly sighed in relief. If Stiles was curious, he might retain enough of his mind to speak. The best of Stiles lay in his mind. If anyone could think their way through an overwhelming surge of power and bloodlust, it would be Stiles. Despite the years Peter had spent wishing for Stiles as a beta, he knew Stiles would be suited to leadership. Stiles was strong and intelligent; he would make a great alpha, and likely a deadly one. He had never been as pure as Scott._

 _When Stiles sat beside him, Peter judged it safe enough to test Stiles' control, just a little. He kept his seat, careful to look harmless and small, but said, "I'd have killed him for you."_

 _Stiles growled but didn't attack. His hands stayed open at his sides. His red eyes burned. If Peter had done the killing, he would be an alpha again. Would the pack turn against him then? Would Peter always be their enemy?_

 _Peter continued, since Stiles seemed unready to speak, "I mean if you didn't want to. Are you happy this way?"_

 _Stiles sneered in the moonlight. "You know I didn't want this."_

 _Peter had meant the killing more than the power. It was hard to remember Stiles focused on the disadvantages as if they could ever outweigh a werewolf's strengths._

 _But Peter remembered offering Stiles the bite, remembered Stiles turning him down. Maybe it had been Peter's madness, but he remembered knowing Stiles wanted it._

 _"Do I?" Peter asked._

 _If his memories were distorted, maybe Stiles could correct them. No, it wasn't a matter of 'if.' Peter's memories were torn and ragged, some caused by his madness and some by too many stolen moments. Peter would never trust Scott to correct the loss without trying to fix Peter too. Scott had seen Peter's memories already and turned against him for it. Stiles may have distrusted Peter since the moment they met, but he also worked with him. Stiles was the one who saw through Peter enough to realize he loved Malia. He might understand._

 _"You may not have believed me, but you know I made a choice," Stiles snarled, baring long fangs as he leaned forward._

 _Peter was low enough already. Stiles wouldn't respect him if he groveled, and if Peter wanted his mind back, he'd need Stiles to see him as useful._

 _Still, Peter was sure to keep his voice soft as he said, "You can't be human again."_

 _Stiles flinched._

 _Peter shouldn't have felt sympathy. It was foolish to cling to humanity when it was both out of reach and inferior to Stiles' new power. But Stiles had chosen it, and Peter knew how it felt to have his choice taken from him._

 _"Did Lydia call you?" Stiles asked, voice cautious and almost sullen._

 _Peter nodded._

 _He had hurt Stiles. Peter kicked himself as much for feeling bad as for reminding Stiles he'd become a monster. Peter couldn't help the facts, and he couldn't protect Stiles from what he'd become. He needed to teach Stiles to accept it, to embrace it, and that would mean letting go of what he used to be. Not who. What._

 _If Stiles insisted on hating himself, he'd only turn out like Peter, and his friends would die before he healed enough to overcome whatever form his madness took._

Stiles left the memory behind. Peter wasn't _normal_ exactly, but he was better. He felt empathy, even if he seemed unsure how to deal with it. And he had wanted to help Stiles. He hadn't gone to the woods with a plan, though he'd begun plotting even as they spoke. He'd gone to find Stiles because Lydia called and said he needed help. He'd gone because he cared.

In the mass of colors, Stiles saw a dark spot where memories had been clawed away and wreathed in shadow. Peter's lost memories. There were too many. His alpha had been reckless with his mind. It was no wonder he went mad and took so many years to recover. Peter's mind had probably begun to slip even before the fire.

Some of those memories would be dangerous. Stiles had heard enough of Talia Hale to be certain of it, but others were collateral damage of her efforts to protect the people around Peter, including Malia. Stiles reached for them. Maybe he could help Peter find some part of himself that Talia had stolen. He already knew from the last memory that Peter wanted it.

Peter's body thrashed. Stiles held him in place with difficulty.

Screams registered before Stiles could see the next memory. He nearly pulled back, but Peter nudged him forward, and Stiles realized Peter's awareness had been with him all along.

 _Corinne gripped Peter's hand tight enough to crack bone. It would heal. She screamed again as Talia encouraged her, promising only one last push. Corinne's roar shook Peter to his bones and jarred his broken hand, but their daughter was born. Peter brushed hair from Corinne's face, but she snapped at him with her teeth and snatched her hand away from his._

 _"Peter, you need to hold her." Talia pressed the swaddled child into his arms. "I will call when Corinne is ready."_

 _Peter knew his sister's dismissal when he heard it. He carried his daughter from the room and ambled down the hall. Talia had cleared the house, sending her husband with the children and the others on various errands, so Peter and his daughter had the space to themselves._

 _He had seen children before. Peter was a diligent uncle, present for every family birth, and he knew babies were awkward, ugly things, barely even worth the promise of who they would one day become._

 _His daughter was something more._

 _She looked like a baby, but some invisible essence glowed in his mind's eye when he gazed at her. He changed his eyes, but it wasn't her aura. He didn't see it so much as feel it as he studied her._

 _Peter cared for his family. He even cared for Corinne. As he poked her cheek, he knew beyond any doubt he had never loved them as he loved his daughter. She fussed but turned her face toward his finger instead of away._

 _When Peter imagined the future, it had been to predict the threats Talia opened the pack to with her weakness. Part of him always smugly imagined he would take over and rebuild the pack stronger than Talia could. For the first time, Peter realized he couldn't let the pack fall, not even to rise again as its alpha, not if it endangered his daughter._

 _"You're a problem," he said, this time poking her forehead. "You turn the world upside down."_

Stiles jerked back and pulled his claws from Peter's neck, unable to take more. Peter cried out, and Stiles panted with effort. Peter always made this look so easy.

Not this time. Peter jerked forward to hunch over, trembling. He had screamed, Stiles remembered. Not just at the end, but also as they relived his memory.

Malia crashed back through the door but froze, staring at Peter.

"Dad?" she asked.

Peter didn't answer.

Stiles knew now that Peter over-thought everything, filling the seconds between sentences with entire analyses and plans. What would he be thinking now? He leaned forward to see Peter's face.

Peter stared at Malia with wide, wet eyes. Tears fell down his cheeks. Even in his madness, he had rarely looked so broken.

Stiles put an arm around Peter but couldn't still his trembling.

"You hurt him," Malia accused, stalking forward. "You did it wrong."

"No," Stiles said.

"I remember," Peter whispered, stretching one hand toward Malia. "I remember when you were born."

Malia's eyes widened. She stared for a long moment before stepping forward to take Peter's hand.

They didn't speak, but Malia had never been great with words and Peter had always been too sly. Silence filled the space between them with warmth, not quite comfortable, but home to a genuine connection Peter and Malia rarely shared.

Peter's whisper pressed into the silence. "Talia tore the beating heart from my chest."

Malia barreled into him, pulling Peter into a crushing hug. Stiles wondered if he should give them space, but as if she heard the thought, Malia reached an arm out to tug Stiles into the embrace.

"Why didn't you have Scott help?" Malia asked.

Peter shook his head.

"Scott couldn't," Stiles said.

Peter would never trust anyone self-taught in his memories, and he would never share the Hale's secrets with someone he feared would treat his mind as Talia had. With the echoes of Peter's memories fresh in his mind, Stiles realized Scott and Talia had a lot in common. Both wanted to do good, and both left collateral damage in their wake. Neither could understand Peter, who preferred to cause the damage outright so he could direct it where he wanted.

Stiles wondered what it said about him that he could.

Malia interrupted his thoughts. "Why could you help?"

Stiles bit his lip.

Voice still tremulous, Peter said, "I made him promise not to share that."

Malia's eyes zeroed in on Peter. "Are you..." She floundered for the right word. "Okay?"

"I'm fine." Peter's heart skipped over the lie.

Malia squeezed him tighter.

Stiles wondered how different Peter's life would have been with even just the memory of Malia's birth. He'd already told Stiles he preferred to have lost her so she could survive the fire, but he didn't have to forget her to give her up.

Malia asked, "Did Stiles bring it back?"

"What?" Peter cocked his head.

"You said Talia took your heart. Did Stiles bring it back?"

"No." Peter held her close. "You already had."

Noah and Henry returned, peeking through the open door like they expected a fight. They relaxed once they saw no one had attacked but grew awkward at the sight of Malia, Peter, and Stiles still embracing on the couch.

"We hadn't heard from Malia," Henry explained, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Malia pulled back. "Sorry, I forgot."

"It's okay. Are you, uh, all okay?"

"Yeah, that was a good hug, not a hurt one," she said.

Henry coughed but didn't mention Peter's red eyes or wet cheeks.

Noah's eyes narrowed, but not at Malia. Stiles realized he had Peter pulled practically into his lap. Malia hadn't noticed or hadn't cared in light of Peter's uncharacteristic vulnerability. Stiles tried to casually turn away from Peter, but Noah raised an eyebrow at the flimsy act.

"What happened?" Noah asked, voice much too even.

Malia glanced back at Peter. Stiles did the same.

Peter shrugged with one shoulder, still clearly not as composed as usual. "Stiles helped me recover a memory my sister took when she was alpha."

Stiles nodded. True but vague seemed a suitable answer from Peter.

Peter studied his audience and added, "It was my memory of Malia's birth."

Stiles gaped.

"That's amazing," Henry said. Stiles couldn't tell if he had known Peter couldn't remember.

Both Noah and Henry were fathers. Maybe Peter hoped to earn some kind of camaraderie or sympathy.

Noah nodded. "That's a moment a father deserves to keep." His voice was grudging, but then, he'd never liked Peter.

Still, Peter's honesty seemed to have paid off. Stiles couldn't even tell if it had been a calculated move or if Peter was too strung out to lie. Having just been in Peter's head, Stiles felt he should know, but Peter's thoughts were too complex and circuitous to predict. Even in his darker moments, when Peter had been a murderous madman bent on revenge, he had been more complicated than a purely evil drive to kill.

At the time, Stiles had readily called him evil without caring to look closer, even when Peter gave him a choice and let him live. Sharing another's memories carried an inherent risk to affect the one supposedly in charge of the interaction. Stiles wondered if he'd gained insight into Peter's mind or been changed by it.

Peter leaned back against the couch, but he was seated diagonally and wound up leaning half against Stiles too. He let out a long, tired breath. The memory had taken far more out of him than Stiles.

Noah cleared his throat.

Stiles looped a hand around Peter's arm.

Noah shook his head. "I hope you're being careful, son. You're still recovering."

"I am," Stiles promised. His heartbeat was steady even though Stiles knew he could be _more_ careful.

Noah looked no less concerned.

Malia focused then on Stiles' hand. Her expression grew guarded, but Stiles suspected she would need time to decide how she felt about her father dating her ex, assuming dating was what this was.

"We should get back to it," Henry said.

"Yeah." Noah leveled a long, considering look at Stiles and Peter before turning away.

Stiles was sure Noah had noticed his and Peter's interest in each other when he made a point to remind his son to use a condom right in front of Peter. Either Stiles read that wrong, or they seemed more serious now than before, and Noah didn't care for serious.

.

Peter and Stiles napped on the couch and woke to Malia prodding them. Peter's hand rested on Stiles shoulder, and his warmth had seeped through Stiles as they slept. Stiles wondered if it was his imagination or if Peter ran hotter than other people.

"It's almost time to trade off," Malia said.

She opened her mouth to say more, but a fit of coughing took Stiles. He spat black ichor over his palm. Malia ran to the kitchen for napkins.

Peter's arms wrapped around Stiles, and he buried his face against Stiles' neck. "We'll figure it out," he promised.

Stiles had his doubts but kept them to himself as he wiped his hand and lips clean.

Malia made a face but didn't say anything else for a while as she squatted on the floor, staring openly. Eventually, she asked, "Do you want me to help you hide it?"

"Everyone knows I'm sick."

"Not that."

Stiles ran the fingers of his clean hand through Peter's hair. "I don't know."

"Your dad noticed," Malia said.

Stiles nodded.

"Does anyone else know?"

"Lydia. She disapproves."

Malia nodded.

"You don't seem very concerned," Stiles said, hoping she'd explain.

"I can't decide for you."

"But it's weird for you, isn't it?"

"As weird as it is for you," she countered. "I'm dating a guy who's like your brother."

"I got used to that." Stiles had started dating Lydia before Malia and Scott were a couple. He'd found out about them because Scott needed Malia's love to help kickstart his healing after he gouged his eyes out fighting the Anuk-Ite, but, well, maybe there was something to be said for a dramatic reveal.

Malia shrugged. "And I'll get used to this." She motioned to them. "I was going to say you need to move apart if you don't want the others to see."

Peter hadn't moved and waited, still silent, with his nose buried in the crook where Stiles' neck met his shoulder.

"We're not doing a great job of hiding," Stiles said.

"The observant ones already noticed," Peter said, lips brushing against Stiles' skin.

Lydia and Malia were willing to keep quiet, and Noah seemed content with vague warnings. They could keep Scott from finding out.

Was Scott the only one left he cared about? Maybe Melissa. But the kids and Theo could fuck off. Derek and Cora were on another continent. They would still find out, but they lived too far away to have much impact on Stiles' life. The whole pack did since Stiles lived in DC most of the year.

Beacon Hills wasn't home. Scott's pack wasn't Stiles'. They could both be again, but they didn't have to be. Stiles could choose.

He wasn't sure he wanted to choose Peter over his friends.

He wasn't sure he had to. He could have everything, or he could leave them all behind. Peter was pack now, but Peter wanted to be an alpha again. This was temporary. Did Stiles want to lose friendships over a relationship that wouldn't last?

Did he want friends who would abandon him so easily?

They wouldn't, he decided, and if they did, then fuck 'em.

"We don't need to hide," Stiles decided, adding, "unless Peter wants to."

"I'm not shy," Peter said easily.

Malia nodded like she'd expected as much. "You should tell Scott before someone else does. It will matter to him."

Scott might still be asleep after staying up all night, but he'd wake soon if he hadn't already.

"I should just do it," Stiles decided. He didn't see a good way to ease into it, so he pulled out his phone and texted, **I'm sort of dating Peter now**.

 **Wtf?** Scott responded immediately, so: not asleep. He'd probably had the phone in his hands already.

 **He's a very handsome evil wolf man**.

Peter had turned to read off Stiles' screen and snorted something like a laugh at that.

 **He tried to make me kill you** , Scott sent.

 **He's better now**.

Scott took a while to respond. **Are you safe with him?**

Stiles remembered fighting Peter and his suspicion that Peter's strength and experience were enough to defeat Stiles despite his power as an alpha. Peter hadn't killed him though. When Peter went to help Stiles in the woods, he'd cared about Stiles, wanted to help him, and not just because he could be useful to Peter. Peter had relapsed before when he tried to kill Scott, but he'd saved Stiles' life from the Wild Hunt. Stiles had heard he even saved Scott, nearly sacrificing himself to do so. Peter could be a monster, but his love for Malia made him better.

 **I think so** , Stiles answered.

Peter may not be the monster he was as the bestial alpha, but he had never been normal mentally or emotionally. He had never truly loved anyone until after he was eighteen, until Malia was born.

Stiles wondered if Peter was capable of loving him. With as much as Stiles had told himself this was temporary, it shouldn't matter to him. It shouldn't hurt. Stiles felt the pain so deeply it lanced through even the darkness around his heart.

 _I'm in love with him,_ Stiles realized. _When did that happen?_

A gun fired below.

Noah was below.

Stiles launched himself from the couch and scrambled out to the balcony. Peter shouted his name, but Stiles never hesitated.

He leapt.

He crashed against the left wall framing the gap the balcony filled and pushed off it to hit the wall on the right. He moved downward, jumping back and forth between the two walls as he strained his hearing for another shot or his father's voice.

Gunshots to the right.

Stiles leapt down from near the second floor and landed in a roll. He raced through the street on all fours. His breath already came in pants, but at least he was running.

Noah crouched behind a corner. He screamed, "NO!" as Stiles raced past him.

Stiles barreled into the shifter. She was strongest, the biggest threat. She went to the ground under his weight, ripping her claws through the skin of Stiles' back. He snarled, baring his fangs.

Pressure hit Stiles' shoulder. He felt it burn before his ears registered the gunshot.

The wolf pushed him back, but Stiles twisted, not to lean closer, but to bury his fangs in her arm. She screamed.

This time, Stiles let her push him off. Corinne aimed her guns at him from only a few paces away. The bullets only slowed him. He snarled, advancing.

"We don't know the cure," Corinne retreated slowly, reloading. Her voice and eyes were hard despite her fear.

Stiles grinned. Blood and spit dribbled down his chin. He wondered if it was black.

Stiles lunged as she raised her guns again. Corinne leapt back, but Stiles' claws raked across her hand. She dropped one gun and swung the other downward to shoot his knee.

A now-familiar note washed over Stiles. He stumbled back. To his right, Haigh held a sonic gun at arms' length. As Stiles staggered away, the dizziness faded. The gun had a limited range. Stiles turned back and scrambled away. He would need a running start.

Corinne dragged the werewolf away, which saved Stiles from her bullets for the moment.

Stiles turned back to Haigh. His knee protested, but it would hold him long enough for one charge.

Noah screamed his name.

Stiles gained speed as he neared Haigh, who held his sonic gun in front of him like it could push Stiles back the way Lydia's banshee screams would. Just as the dizziness returned, Stiles leapt. He hurtled through space he would have fallen in had he kept his feet. He crashed into Haigh. They hit the ground.

Momentum carried Stiles forward. He sank his teeth into Haigh's shoulder. Haigh screamed, and Stiles pulled back to join him with a howl.

Haigh scrambled away. Stiles lay on the ground, too spent to give chase.

More gunshots sounded, but none brought more pain. Stiles tried to push himself up. Agony screamed through his body, burning hottest at his shoulder and knee. He retched a black puddle onto the street and hoped it wasn't blood as he fell forward into it.

"Goddamnit, Stiles." Noah's voice was close, strained. Stiles couldn't turn to look at him.

Stiles groaned so Noah would know he was conscious.

Peter's hands reached beneath Stiles to lift him. He carried Stiles as easily as he would a child back into the relative safety of Derek's building.

"That was stupid, Stiles," Peter said.

"I bit two of them." Stiles' voice was heavy and gurgled past liquid bubbling from his throat.

Peter turned Stiles' head to the side. His mouth dripped. Stiles couldn't see but would bet it was black.

"You weren't strong enough yet," Peter said. "And now you're full of holes again. If this doesn't kill you, Melissa will."

"They still fighting?" Stiles asked. He couldn't see through the walls and couldn't seem to reach his other senses past Peter.

"Running," Peter answered, blue eyes darkened with worry. "They hit you with a wolfsbane bullet. We need to burn the poison out so you can heal."

"None had wolfsbane yesterday." At least none Stiles knew about.

"We got lucky." Peter frowned. It made him look older. "Melissa's on the way, but you weren't fully recovered from yesterday. You might not..." He swallowed the rest of the sentence.

"My dad was in danger." Stiles' words slurred, but not beyond recognition.

Peter was taking his pain, but Stiles needed more than comfort to recover now.

In the loft, Peter left Stiles on the floor while he retrieved the blowtorch.

Peter paused and ran his hand across the blood on Stiles' chest. When he lifted his fingers, Stiles saw the blood was red. Peter checked the blood on Stiles' knee and gut. Black.

"It's healing the infection?" Stiles asked.

"And causing its own. Your resistance won't be strong enough with your body so weak. I still have to burn it out."

 _"You_ need to hold him down," Melissa corrected, hurrying through the entrance.

Peter handed over the flame readily enough. When Melissa set the flame to Stiles' chest, he screamed with pain, too weak even to roar. He thrashed, but Peter was more than strong enough to hold him down.

When it was done, Stiles lay panting.

"Is this the time for a phone call?" Noah asked, and Stiles realized Peter had his cell phone against his ear.

"Yes," Peter answered with a sneer.

Melissa set to work removing the other bullets. Stiles knew there were fewer than last time, but he was also weaker. He focused on Peter to distract himself from the pain.

"Do you have what it would take to find out what happens if you introduce more wolfsbane to our systems?" Peter asked. He scowled through a response before snarling, "Yes, I make all my decisions based on absolutely fucking nothing."

"Peter," Melissa snapped. "I need you to stay calm, or step away."

Peter shook with unconcealed rage, but he snarled and walked away to shout into his phone some more.

Stiles tried to tell Melissa about the time Kate shot Derek with a wolfsbane bullet. Burning alone hadn't been enough. Scott had to fetch another sample of the same kind of wolfsbane from Kate's bag so Derek could use it to counter the poison in his arm.

It came out as something of a gurgle, and Noah turned Stiles' head back to the side so his mouth could drain. The pain was too much anyway. Stiles couldn't make his thoughts into words. Black veins ran up Malia's arms as she took Stiles' pain, but it wasn't enough. Or maybe it was just enough that Stiles could pass out as Melissa worked.

.

Stiles lay propped against a stack of pillows, too weak to sit on his own. Peter had never bothered to build Derek a proper bedroom, leaving Derek's bed in the communal area of what had served Derek as a large studio apartment before he left town.

"Mason?" Stiles asked, not for the first time. His thoughts kept glazing over, making it hard to keep track of time. He might have asked after Mason too often since asking him to come by.

"He's close," Peter said. He sat on the bed beside Stiles with books spread around him and a laptop on his knee.

"You need to rest," Melissa scolded. "And drink your tea."

Stiles had forgotten the mug on the nightstand. It wasn't really a nightstand, just a crate with a tablecloth. Peter had made him tea, purple reishi like before, except it had honey. It tasted earthier. Peter had increased the ratio of mushrooms to tea leaves to make the tea stronger.

"You'll feel better," Peter promised, though most of his attention remained on the laptop.

"It didn't help," Stiles said, staring into the hot, dark tea.

"It won't cure you," Peter agreed. "But it will help you recover from your most recent attempt to get yourself killed."

"It wasn't like that," Stiles grumbled.

Noah sat on a chair by the bed watching Stiles like he might crumble to dust. He didn't say anything, but Stiles sipped the tea, hoping it would reassure Noah of his survival.

Stiles had finished his tea by the time Mason arrived. There was something Stiles needed to tell him. Mason was the research and planning guy now.

"He's gonna pull through, right?" Mason asked Melissa in a whisper.

"If he has enough sense to stop getting shot, he might." Melissa's voice wavered, and Stiles suspected even without getting shot, he might not.

Stiles coughed, afraid he'd leave more black gunk on his hand, but it was only blood. Still bad. Stiles wiped it on a towel Noah had brought him earlier.

When Mason stopped beside Noah, Stiles set a hand against his bandaged shoulder. "The rest of my wounds bled black, but not this. This is where the wolfsbane hit me. It made my blood normal again." He winced. "It was still killing me in its own right."

Mason looked to the others before asking, "Do you need to know more about the wolfsbane they're using?"

Stiles nodded, though he kept the motion slight. "And the mountain ash and belladonna. I'll need all three. Or their heads at least." The berries and flowers would be Stiles' best guess at head-parts for magic plants.

"You think they're the three kings?" Mason asked.

"Kings?" Noah asked.

Mason summarized the Hostel of the Quicken Trees more accurately than Stiles had when he first found it, telling Noah that Fionn Mac Cumhail had been freed when his men sprinkled the blood of the three kings who cursed him onto the floor where he lay trapped. Noah nodded even though he looked like he had no idea how the story connected to Stiles' illness.

"They're still poisonous, Stiles." Mason shook his head. "You still had to burn the wolfsbane out."

Stiles pointed to his empty mug. "That's why I won't take them alone."

Mason studied the mug, but it was empty.

"Purple reishi," Peter said. "It does not make him invincible."

"I never said it would," Stiles complained.

Mason studied the cup. "It might work, but if it doesn't, Stiles, you're not strong enough to survive."

"I'm dying anyway."

"Don't say that," Noah ordered. "You're going to make it through this."

"You bit two of them," Peter said. "They'll be desperate for a cure now. Let them test it for us."

Peter was sick too, Stiles remembered. He just hadn't shown any symptoms yet.

"Do you have enough magic mushrooms to share with them?" Mason asked.

Peter made a face.

"Is that a 'no'?"

"I have enough. I just hate to see it wasted on them."

"We could also try the nine herbs," Mason suggested.

"I already did," Melissa said. "They're the reason he's alive right now, but they didn't cure him."

Stiles coughed uncomfortably. "We can trade them reishi for the other three."

"I'm sure it will be that simple," Peter drawled.

Stiles scowled at him.

"Why did you need me here?" Mason asked.

Stiles scrunched his face, trying to remember. "You're training with Deaton, right?"

"Yeah. I think he would have come if you asked."

Stiles shook his head. He'd worked with Deaton before, and the emissary was vague and annoying at least as much as he was helpful, probably more. Scott could deal with that.

"This is your thing, right?" Stiles asked.

"My thing?"

"You solve problems and handle materials we can't touch."

"You called me because you would have done it yourself before you were bitten," Mason said.

"I wouldn't have gone alone, and neither should you."

Mason eyed Stiles' injuries. "Are you sure you wouldn't have gone alone?"

Stiles scowled.

"I'm not the only one who can handle wolfsbane and mountain ash," Mason reminded him.

"And is immune to Haigh's weapon," Stiles added.

Mason nodded.

"You're training to be an emissary, aren't you?" Stiles asked.

"Yes."

"Did Deaton say why _I_ never learned?"

"No, but I didn't ask. I'm guessing you don't have the right temperament. He keeps telling me I need to remain calm at times when no reasonable person does anything but freak out."

"Are you saying I panic?" Stiles had kept his cool through more than enough dangerous, terrifying situations to prove himself.

"Sort of the opposite. You're too eager."

Stiles choked and wound up in a coughing fit.

"You should probably rest," Mason said.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"I mean sleep. I'll work on your cure. Your job is to stay alive long enough to take it."

Stiles nodded, with a wince because he forgot to take it easy. Peter began stealing Stiles' pillows to make him lie down. Stiles gave in and closed his eyes.


	11. Do What You Can

This is technically the Christmas chapter since it's December 25th, but there's non-holiday plot stuff so I guess it's not a proper christmas special

 **Chapter Eleven: Do What You Can**

 _Thursday, December 25, 2014_

Stiles woke warm and comfortable despite a jarring stiffness that ran throughout his body, especially his injured knee. The weight of Peter's head lay on his chest. Stiles thought it should hurt, but the compression soothed him.

He lay with his eyes still closed and brought a hand to stroke Peter's hair. Peter didn't stir.

Someone else did. Stiles opened his eyes to find Noah awake in the chair at Stiles' bedside, carefully setting a cup of coffee on the makeshift nightstand. Scott sprawled haphazardly across the other armchair, and Melissa had claimed the couch.

"Merry Christmas," Noah whispered.

It was dark, sometime before sunrise on Christmas morning.

"Merry Christmas," Stiles echoed, careful to keep his voice soft.

Stiles glanced down at Peter. He'd hoped Peter would look more innocent in his sleep, but his brow furrowed over some trouble in his dreams.

"Scott said you'd heal better if Peter stayed close." Noah nodded to Peter as he spoke.

"Yeah," Stiles agreed.

"I had hoped you were just fooling around."

"Guess not." Stiles continued petting Peter's hair.

Noah grimaced. "At least he's younger than I am."

Stiles struggled not to laugh.

"He's still dangerous, son."

"So am I."

Noah nodded. "So dangerous that Melissa says it's not safe to move you. Since you can't go home, we brought Christmas here." He motioned behind him to Scott, Melissa, and a hoard of gifts beneath the tree. "The girls borrowed Peter's room, though I don't know how they convinced Henry and Natalie to spare them today."

Stiles winced. "Sorry I didn't make it home."

"I know, son." Noah squeezed Stiles' arm lightly enough not to hurt.

"Have you slept?" Stiles asked.

"A little. Just woke up," he checked his watch, "half an hour ago."

"You should go back to sleep, Dad."

Noah shook his head. "Tried that already. Besides, the one of us who needs sleep is you."

He took Stiles' hand but didn't say any more.

Stiles had been too afraid for Noah's safety to realize just how much he missed him. For a long time, they'd had trouble being close. Stiles lied too much, and Noah worked too much. After the Wild Hunt, they'd been easier around each other, but then Stiles left for DC.

Peter hummed softly. Stiles looked down to see Peter's eyes were still closed, but he had begun to stir.

"Merry Christmas," Stiles whispered to him.

"I don't celebrate your savior's fake birthday," Peter mumbled, though the last word stretched into a yawn.

"I didn't even think..." Stiles should have asked. He knew not everyone celebrated Christmas.

"Relax." Peter tapped his finger against Stiles' nose. "I don't care. Your party offends only my desire to be left alone."

"Would you rather be alone right now?" Stiles asked.

Peter frowned. "I got Malia a present, so I guess I'm stuck here."

"That sounds like premeditated Christmas celebration."

Peter rolled his eyes and propped himself up on one elbow, apparently relaxed despite the others throughout the loft.

Noah nodded to Peter. "Peter."

"Sheriff." Peter inclined his head lazily.

Stiles held his breath, worried Noah would try to threaten Peter.

"Breathe," Peter ordered, setting a hand against Stiles' chest.

Stiles did.

Noah said, "Peter and I already... talked."

"You what?"

"No one got hurt," Peter assured him.

"What exactly did you talk about without me?" Stiles asked with a glare for the both of them.

Peter smirked. "I promised not to eat you up."

Noah pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned.

"Dad?" Stiles asked.

"You can't blame me for being suspicious," Noah protested, motioning to Peter like his existence itself was a problem.

Stiles sighed the longest, most annoyed sigh he could without coughing. It was little more than a faint huff.

Peter rolled his eyes again, more dramatically this time. "If I want to have enough food to feed your holiday army when they wake up, I had best start cooking now."

Noah nodded.

"When did you have time to _buy_ enough food to feed them all?" Stiles asked.

Peter sighed the sigh Stiles had failed to achieve. "I saw this coming and sent Theo to do it while you slept. No one defends Theo except Liam, and he's afraid of me."

"You _are_ a monster." Stiles chuckled, keeping it soft more due to the weakness of his lungs than conscious effort.

Scott stirred as Peter moved to the kitchen. He shook Melissa's shoulder gently until she woke, then moved to Stiles' bedside as Melissa headed to the restroom to wash up.

"It's good you're up. Mom needs to change your bandages," Scott explained.

Stiles nodded.

Scott's eyes lingered on Peter in the kitchen. "You don't have anyone else yet. You need to keep him close."

"Let him cook," Stiles said. "I think he likes it. Besides, he's not far."

Scott gave Stiles a weird, bittersweet smile. "Sorry I can't do more."

"You do what you can," Stiles assured him.

Scott shook his head. "I'm keeping you from being pack."

"It's not that simple."

"Because I did a lot of things or because you have a reason other than me?" Scott asked.

Before Stiles had to answer, Melissa returned. Stiles thought it a good enough reason to wait, but Scott and Noah both gave him stares heavy more with knowing than blame.

"This will probably hurt," Melissa warned. "Let me know if you need help with the pain."

Stiles nodded.

She started with his left shoulder. Stiles clenched his teeth against the pain as she cleaned it, but the bandages had come away with red blood. Looking down at his chest, Stiles could see black seeping though other bandages. The wolfsbane hadn't spread far enough to affect his other wounds. If it had, Stiles suspected he would be dead already. Without the mountain ash and deadly nightshade, the wolfsbane was too little and too poisonous. Stiles hoped purple reishi would be enough to keep him alive through taking three poisons simultaneously, or that Mason had a better idea.

A worried line creased Melissa's forehead as she worked. She cleaned each wound carefully and applied a medicinal paste that looked homemade before wrapping it in fresh bandages. Stiles felt more like a mummy than a werewolf.

Melissa pulled the blankets away to reach Stiles' knee and swore. Black ichor had soaked through the bandages to coat the sheets. The knee itself was badly swollen, and black veins crept along his leg past the bandages.

Even Melissa's light touch burned. Stiles growled with pain. After Melissa flinched away, Stiles realized he'd shifted.

"Pain is supposed to keep us human," Scott said softly.

He didn't elaborate but took Stiles' hand to siphon some of his pain.

Stiles tried to tell Scott to shove it, but all he could do was growl again.

The noise must have woken Malia. She hurried out with Lydia in her wake and moved to help Scott hold Stiles down. Stiles understood. He could hurt Melissa without meaning to if he flinched.

"I'm sorry, Stiles. This is definitely going to hurt." Melissa's voice was calm but firm despite her obvious apprehension.

Stiles nodded, but it came out as more a jerk of the head.

Melissa tried to peel the bandage back carefully, but it was stuck to his leg with ichor. By the time she got it off, Stiles' growls intermingled with screams. Black puss had built up in the wound, making horrid black lumps on his flesh. Melissa used a scalpel from her first aid kit to cut and drain the wound. Lydia ran clean towels to her and carted the dirty ones away.

Peter stood just outside the kitchen with a forgotten dishtowel in his hand, staring as if frozen in place. His eyes glowed with blue light. Peter always smelled of flame, but Stiles smelled smoke.

Noah petted Stiles' hair and told him he'd be okay. Stiles managed not to snap his teeth only by gritting them in a snarl. Scott pushed Noah back gently.

Stiles didn't want to fight his friends, but the pain roared through his body too powerfully to remain still. He snatched his arm from Scott. Melissa didn't flinch. Scott grabbed Stiles' wrist and pulled it away before he'd reached it to his knee.

By the time Melissa had cleaned, medicated, and bandaged Stiles' knee, he had spent what little energy remained to him.

Scott and Malia carried Stiles to the couch so the others could strip the bedding. Liam and Theo arrived from above and helped dispose of the dirty sheets, though their matching grimaces implied they wished they'd taken five minutes longer to arrive. When Melissa asked Peter about spare sheets, he pointed mutely past the bathroom. His eyes still glowed.

"Peter?" Stiles asked, voice ragged from screaming.

Peter was a dramatic soul. He showed his eyes to drive home a point or provide flair. This was more like he'd been trapped and couldn't hide their light if he tried.

Scott frowned at Peter a moment before his own eyes glowed red.

"Shit, Stiles," Scott gasped.

"What do you see?" Lydia asked.

Theo's eyes glowed—when had they turned blue?

"Your aura's deteriorating," Theo said. "It looks like you've turned to ash and pieces have started flaking away."

Scott nodded in confirmation.

"What does that mean?" Noah demanded.

"He's sicker than before." Theo seemed calm as ever, but Stiles' wellbeing had never been a priority for him. He looked around at the others. "This isn't new. He's been off from the start." He tilted his head. "Could you not see it, or did you not want to?"

Liam nudged Theo's side and whispered, "Enough."

Stiles had watched his body turn to ash and crumble once. He didn't mention it now.

Stiles' phone rang. It was across the room on the nightstand, but Noah answered it for him once he realized "Witch Activity" was Stiles' ringtone, not a random music from the void.

"Hi, Mason. I'm bringing the phone to Stiles now."

Stiles couldn't hear whatever Mason said. What supernatural energy remained to him was being directed exclusively toward healing now.

"What's up?" Stiles asked after Noah handed over the phone.

"They won't negotiate without you," Mason said.

"Then I guess we're all dying. I can't walk, and we will kill any of them that shows up here, especially if they ruin Christmas." Stiles scowled, though the objects of his ire couldn't see him. He also doubted Scott would let them kill anyone, but the threat fit Stiles' mood.

"That's almost exactly what Argent and Braeden told her."

"They found one of them?"

"Sort of. The masked woman was waiting for them, to insist we all work together. She's tied up if you want to talk. The vocal scrambler might sound weird over the phone though."

"You're _there?"_ Stiles demanded.

"Argent is literally right next to me. I'm safe."

Stiles bit his lip but decided that was safe enough. "Why don't you unmask her?"

"Politeness, I think? Argent insisted since she gave herself up."

"Honor," Argent corrected, voice sounding far off through the phone speaker even though Stiles had no doubt he was well within Mason's personal bubble.

Stiles groaned. "Whatever, Zuko. Let me talk to her."

Stiles didn't know what exactly he'd do, but he was a talker. He could do _something_.

"I'll put you on speaker," Mason said.

"You'll keep your distance," Argent ordered.

"I'll hold the phone." Parrish's voice sounded closer than Argent's had.

"Stiles." The voice was distorted, but still more understandable than the Dread Doctors' had been.

"Speaking," Stiles confirmed.

"Is Peter showing symptoms?"

Stiles grunted in annoyance. He wanted offers, not questions. "It's only been a day." Maybe more like a day and a half.

"Haigh and I are both symptomatic already."

Stiles had bitten them just last night.

"Bullshit," Stiles spat. She was trying to scare him.

"She's telling the truth," Parrish said. "She has black veins on her hands and throat. There's also this ominous feeling around her, like she won't be here long."

"Oh. Peter seems fine," Stiles said.

Peter's eyes had finally dimmed, though he hadn't returned to the kitchen. He wore a short-sleeved v-neck, and the veins on his arms looked normal. Even the bite Stiles' teeth left had mostly healed. The skin was faintly lighter, but not black.

"Your friend claims you have a cure," the woman said.

"We need a few ingredients from you before we have it," Stiles corrected.

"He wouldn't say more than that he wanted samples of what was used on the first subject. I don't think you have a cure. I think you're hoping to reverse engineer our work. You can't."

"Peter's not sick yet," Stiles reminded her, "and I was fine until I let Corinne fill me with bullets."

The masked shifter was quiet a long moment. "No one was supposed to get hurt," she said at last. Even past the distortion, her voice was soft. "I just wanted a cure."

Stiles' breath caught. "A cure?"

"You think I poisoned werewolves to make them stronger? I wanted to fight the curse, or at least weaken its hold enough to push it out."

"Out of you and into someone who wants it," Stiles realized. A way to pass off the werewolf's curse. She would be human, and Corinne would be strong again. "Parrish, is she lying?"

"I don't think so, but we don't know how good a liar she is." Parrish's voice grew louder as he spoke, like he'd begun while in the process of leaning toward the phone.

"Is Scott McCall with you?" the shifter asked.

Scott stepped forward even though Stiles' phone was not on speaker. He knelt close to Stiles' ear to say, "I'm here."

"Take off my mask," she said, presumably to Parrish or Argent.

Mason gasped, barely audible through the phone. "Mrs. Finch?"

Scott jerked back like he'd been slapped. Mrs. Finch had been his AP Biology teacher in high school, as well as secret werewolf from the primal pack.

Finch said, "You can tell them, Scott. All I want is to live a normal life. I don't want to be a werewolf."

"You killed people for _that?"_ Scott growled.

"No one was supposed to die."

"Why not experiment on yourself if you didn't expect anyone to die?" Scott demanded.

"There are always risks. Imagine if it had worked, Scott. It wouldn't help just me, but anyone who was bitten against their will or born into a body with a curse they didn't deserve. We could cure Stiles."

"You're the reason Stiles needs a cure." Scott's eyes burned red with rage. "You can't kill the people you're trying to save."

Stiles remembered when Scott said that to him. He hadn't been so angry. He'd been desperate, afraid.

Finch growled. "Like no one's ever died on your watch, Scott? Because of what you did, or didn't do?"

"You know they have." Scott's voice was low and dangerous. "But I saved as many as I could, and I never knowingly let them die."

"Living on technicalities, Scott?" Finch asked. "Or refusing to face your responsibility? Your guilt?"

Stiles gently pushed Scott back and said, "He's not the one you're dealing with."

"No, he'll survive us both. He always does."

"You know he's died before, right?" Stiles asked.

Finch was silent.

Liam and Theo shuffled uncomfortably, but Scott motioned for them to relax. He'd forgiven them, or he'd forgiven Liam and tolerated Theo. Stiles wasn't sure anyone in the pack had forgiven Theo after he tore them apart in a way no other enemy could. Theo showed them they could be monstrous too.

"Not as well-informed as you thought?" Stiles taunted Finch. "You're just trying to make yourself feel better about what you've done. Don't pull Scott into that."

"Fine, tell me what you plan to do with the flowers and berries from rowan, belladonna, and aconite."

"Brew a rank-ass fucking tea."

"Is that a joke? It would kill you."

"We usually stop wolfsbane by burning the poison out, but sometimes, fire isn't enough. We need more of the poison to counteract the rest."

"You haven't explained how you'll survive."

"We add them to a healing agent."

"Which is...?"

"Not information I'll give freely. Bring me what I need—fucking tomorrow; I don't want to see your nasty, veiny face on Christmas—and we'll give you enough to cure yourself and Haigh."

"You don't know for certain this will work," she said.

"Then I guess you'd better test it on Haigh first," Stiles sneered.

"Fine," she said. "I hope you'll forgive us if we send Corinne?"

"I won't," Stiles spat. "Come yourself and hope we don't kill you, or hide in a hole and die of your own fucking mistakes." He hung up.

"Shit," Scott muttered.

Stiles hands shook with rage. He was too weak to hurt anyone, but that made it harder to get a grip. He was still technically a dangerous monster, but an injured one moping around as good as wearing a cone of shame.

"Are you okay, Stiles?" Noah asked.

"No."

Noah stepped forward, but Scott held him back.

"He's my son," Noah said. "He won't hurt me."

Scott frowned. "He might not mean to."

"He'll be fine," Peter said and finally returned to the kitchen.

Noah pushed past Scott to kneel beside Stiles. "This cure's going to work," he said, brushing Stiles' bangs back from his forehead. "They're sicker than Peter, and he's been chugging that mushroom tea. It's going to work."

Theo said, "Peter might just be presenting normally. If—"

Liam stomped on his foot to shut him up.

"I'm helping," Theo argued.

Liam crossed his arms. "You're not."

"The extra power," Stiles remembered. "I thought it was for power. I thought it worked."

Corinne and the Blackhearts had run two tests, both coming up positive. Stiles was certain.

"Stiles..." A frown creased Noah's face with worry.

"Peter," Stiles called.

Peter took his time but eventually joined them in the sitting area.

"Did you lie?" Stiles asked.

"What kind of question is that?" Peter rolled his eyes rather than look into Stiles'. "Of course I lied."

Stiles asked, "Would it work?"

"Only if you want to die." Peter sneered. "By the time I felt the difference, you were full of too many holes for a human to survive. I couldn't take the chance—"

"That I'd rather die than stay a werewolf?" Stiles shook his head. "You know better than that. I could have killed myself like hunters do."

Peter tensed. "Once you're cured, you won't be able to anymore."

"I'm missing something," Melissa said.

Stiles explained, "Finch's experiment worked, sort of. I could give my power away and become human again, but if the remaining poison didn't immediately kill me, my injuries would. And whoever I gave the power to would be sick too since it's contagious. The cure, if it works, will both heal me and remove the ability to give away my power."

Scott said, "That's probably why Mrs. Finch didn't give her power to the Desert Wolf yet."

Stiles added, "She wanted it to seem like a cure was an option, but it can't work."

Theo said, "Unless you work with her to fix the cure." When several of the others turned to glare, he asked, "What?" as Liam elbowed him. "I'm saying he could, not he should. I know working with mad scientists turns out badly. I learned that lesson."

Stiles ignored Theo and faced Peter. "Let me make my own decisions, even when you don't like them."

Peter nodded. "Then I should also mention I suspect the reason we sickened more slowly than they is because someone used wolfsbane on the rest of us when we were infected."

"Thank you." The room was tense, so Stiles asked, "What's for breakfast?"

"Chocolate. I burned the scones."

Stiles laughed weakly.

"Sleep. There might be something worth eating when you wake up."

Stiles had only just woken, but he was exhausted. Since new sheets hadn't been put on the bed yet, Stiles lay his head back and fell asleep on the couch with Noah stroking his hair.

.

Stiles woke to the smell of bacon. Melissa made him endure another cleaning for his knee in case the pain made him lose his breakfast, but it wasn't as bad this time since it hadn't set as long. Scott helped Stiles sit and propped his bad leg up on the coffee table with pillows, and Peter brought Stiles a plate heaped with bacon, scrambled eggs, and French toast.

"Eat it all. You'll need the energy," Peter said as though there were any chance of Stiles leaving a bite behind.

Stiles immediately shoveled as much as would fit into his mouth. "This is the best toast in the world. How the fuck?"

"Homemade bread," Peter explained.

"When the fuck?" Stiles corrected because they'd been more than a little busy, and baking bread took hours.

"Yesterday while you slept."

"Why?"

"Lunch. Now there's nothing to make sandwiches."

"Did you... plan meals for the entire day?"

Peter frowned.

"Oh my God. You did." Stiles grinned. "That's adorable."

"I wasn't about to let any of them ruin the kitchen. Do you know how much I spent on the countertops alone?"

Stiles laughed.

"Stop," Peter said.

Stiles tried but still wound up grinning.

Peter tilted his head as a slow smirk crept to his lips. "You didn't react to me giving you an order."

Stiles stuck his tongue at Peter and shoved his cleaned plate at him. "More."

"Eggs?"

"Toast!"

"Eggs are better for you."

"It's Christmas. I want toast."

"Capitalist charade of religious sentiment toast?"

"French toast, asshole."

Peter gave the fakest bow Stiles had ever seen and carried the plate back to the kitchen.

Noah shook his head.

"What?" Stiles asked.

"You're much more cheerful than earlier," Noah noted.

"It's a Christmas miracle," Stiles said flatly.

Noah's attention flickered toward the kitchen. "I keep finding he means more to you than I thought."

"Because toast?"

"Because he makes you happy."

Stiles moved his shoulders nearly into a shrug, though the left one hurt too much to get all the way there.

Noah motioned to the tree, its trunk entirely obscured by gifts. "We've been waiting for you."

Stiles gave a regal nod. "Open those fuckers the hell up."

"You learn to talk that way in DC?" Noah asked with obvious disapproval.

"No, I just wasn't allowed to do it under your roof. This has all been a ploy to curse on Christmas." Stiles achieved the perfect deadpan delivery almost as much through lingering exhaustion as vocal control, but he would take it.

"You're a brat." Noah ruffled his hair, smiling.

Peter brought Stiles more French toast as Noah gathered the others. They debated who should open which gifts first. Stiles let them be; it bought him time to finish eating. Peter sat beside him with a mug of tea for each of them.

Stiles leaned back so his shoulder brushed Peter's and asked, "Do you have enough to drink so frequently?"

"I'm only using a small amount at a time and mixing it with tea leaves. I tried adding a mostly benign wolfsbane to mine earlier, and it seemed to help as well."

"Is there wolfsbane in this?" Stiles hefted his tea.

"No, you're very weak."

Stiles studied Peter through narrowed eyes. "Is it the boozebane?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Noah interrupted with a stack of gifts, and the others took places around the couch, effectively surrounding Stiles even though it left most of them sitting on the floor.

The loft became a whirlwind of wrapping paper and laughter. Stiles tried to enjoy it, but he couldn't even stand. He suspected the others were trying too hard to cheer him up.

He wasn't the only one who needed cheering.

Stiles had years of experience acting cheerful and put it to good use. He loudly forced Peter to keep track of his gifts even though it was maybe a little bit of a dick move since Peter received only one gift: a leather-bound copy of Othello from Malia with a note that Iago is how Peter used to be. Peter held the book close to his chest even as he rolled his eyes and juggled Stiles' gifts. Malia had rolled her eyes in an almost perfect mirror of her father at the new laptop Peter gave her but kissed his cheek and kept it close.

For the most part, Stiles had gotten everyone souvenirs from DC, most of them from various Smithsonian gift shops. Lydia had picked out her own gift but still acted surprised Stiles had selected such a perfect necklace for her. The look Scott gave Stiles, eyebrows raised over a fond grin, said he knew exactly how Stiles had known Lydia would love it.

Stiles hadn't planned on Peter. He had a couple key chains in his bag to cover for unforeseen parents or if Liam had a new girlfriend, but they didn't feel right going to Peter. That left him with nothing to give even though Stiles couldn't say if he'd ever have another Christmas with Peter as more than a weird pack ally. Stiles fidgeted with his gift from Lydia, a book on criminal psychology.

Peter handed Stiles an unwrapped box a little larger than a jewelry gift box. It was more than Stiles had pulled together for Peter.

"No," Stiles said. "I didn't get you anything."

"I literally had it lying around." Peter shoved the box into Stiles' lap.

Stiles reconsidered the key chains. One of them was a little robot. That was cute, right?

The others were still distracted by their own presents. Had Peter waited until they took their attention from Stiles knowing he'd feel self-conscious?

With a sigh, Stiles opened the box to find a folding knife with an intricately carved bone handle. Knotwork decorated the edges, and a pack of stylized wolves made up the main body of the carving on both sides of the handle. Stiles ran his fingers over the texture of the bone carving.

"You really had this just lying around?" Stiles asked.

"I found it shoved in a box in the vault when I emptied it after the entrance was ruined. I don't even know who it belonged to." Peter spoke with too complete an air of casual disinterest.

Stiles squinted at him. "I doubt that."

Peter shrugged as if that couldn't possibly matter less.

Noah waited until most of the gifts had been opened to bring Stiles a small velvet box with corners that showed wear without being ragged. The hinge creaked softly as Stiles opened it to reveal a matching set of cufflinks and a tie tack all embossed with the letter M.

"They belonged to your Grandpa Mieczysław," Noah said. "Still not sure you ever wear a tie though."

Stiles grinned. "Sometimes. It will really twist people's brains to mush trying to figure out where the M fits into Stiles Stilinski."

Noah chuckled. "Imagine their faces when you tell them what it stands for."

"It's always better to show them." Stiles laughed and motioned his father forward. "Thank you, Dad. Come hug me."

Noah leaned over the couch's arm to embrace Stiles, careful not to hurt him.

"He would have been proud of you," Noah said. "I'm proud of you."

Stiles wrapped his right arm around Noah. "I love you, Dad."

"Love you, Son."

Stiles would have liked a holiday at home with fewer threats and no injuries, but this wasn't so bad.


	12. No One Can Be Perfect

It feels weird to me when I add backstory to canon characters in fanfic, probably because I don't write enough AUs. I always wanted more on Peter than the show gave us

 **Chapter Twelve: No One Can Be Perfect**

 _Friday, December 26, 2014_

Finch arrived with the sun. Stiles had demanded more dignified clothes and received sweatpants and a plain blue sweater for his trouble.

Much of the pack had other business or guard duty, but Scott and Mason insisted on confronting Finch. They had both looked up to her as a teacher. Stiles had avoided her class since he didn't need more biology or the chance that the hardest class in the school would lower his GPA. Since he hadn't existed for a quarter of senior year, Stiles thought it a good call, doubly so since it would have left him feeling as betrayed as Mason and Scott did now.

Argent stuck to Mason's side, determined not to let Finch injure him, but Parrish had to report to the station this morning, as had Noah. Braeden was out tracking Corinne, both as a backup plan and because she would do what she pleased regardless.

Corey ran in to say Finch was on her way up and hid himself after that.

Stiles had convinced Peter to prop him up in an armchair, and Peter had dragged the other over to lounge beside him. Stiles ran his thumb over the carvings on his new knife. Peter still wouldn't say who it belonged to. Stiles had texted pictures to Derek and Cora, but they both said they'd never seen it before. Besides, what use had werewolves for knives? Derek had reminded Stiles that the Hale family had included humans. Many of them did carry knives, just not that one. Then he had reminded Stiles it was 4am.

Theo escorted Finch to the loft but returned to his post downstairs rather than entering with her. As she walked in, Finch's eyes flickered to Stiles' knife for only a moment before scanning Peter and Stiles intently.

"So it's true," she said, though she didn't sound surprised.

Her veins were swollen and dark with ichor. Winter clothing hid most of her skin, but her hands, neck, and face showed the sickness had attacked her more quickly than Peter or Stiles.

"Holding it at bay isn't the same as a cure," Stiles admitted.

Had Finch known it could spread so quickly? Corinne had claimed it took up to eight days, so to be fully symptomatic after one seemed strange. Stiles was less sick now than Fenris had been when he gave Stiles the bite, which made it unlikely his degree of infection impacted Finch's and Haigh's.

Peter had claimed the purple reishi alone had no impact on Stiles' health. Since Stiles first tasted it six days after being infected, he doubted the mushroom had helped Peter stave off symptoms that were already apparent in Finch, at least not on its own.

"Has anyone used wolfsbane against you or Haigh since I bit you?" Stiles asked.

"No." Finch narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

Stiles nodded rather than elaborate.

Peter's idea—that competing wolfsbane slowed Finch's "cure"—seemed the most likely explanation. Stiles hoped the infection could be countered fully if they used all three ingredients instead of just one. If this didn't work... he pushed the thought aside. It had to work.

Stiles wished he wasn't hungry. It made the queasiness of unease worse.

Finch turned to study Scott and Mason, giving Stiles a better view of the bag she carried: a nondescript drawstring backpack. Stiles hoped Theo and Corey had checked it downstairs. Stiles motioned for Argent to do so now.

Finch stiffened. "You can look, but I keep it until the deal is done." She held the bag open toward him with her claws out. They were black like her blood.

Argent nodded to Stiles. It was a bag of weapons against werewolves, so while it couldn't be called safe, it was at least what they had expected. Stiles was confident Finch would have secured its contents rather than risk them harming her.

"Now you can share the supposed key to your success," Finch told Stiles.

Stiles frowned.

"I'm here because I'm desperate. I need your help." Finch clenched one hand into a fist but had the presence of mind not to advance.

"Duh." Stiles made himself smirk even though he wanted to sneer. "And I'm here because you're an idiot. What did you think conducting human experiments would get you?"

"I know I brought this on myself, but don't pretend you're better than me. I tried to stay out of all this. I even left my pack. _You all_ dragged me back in." Finch's eyes flashed red, darting to Scott.

"You could have suppressed it again," Scott said with quiet disdain. "With no pack, it would have been easier."

"Screw that." Mason stepped forward, but Argent stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "You should have come to us. I see you five days a week, and you couldn't take five minutes after class to ask for our help? In most places, omegas don't last long, but that's not always true here. Peter's been an omega for years, and he's only gotten stronger."

Finch shook her head. "He's alive, but how many others are dead? How many have to die before you all realize you're not heroes? How—"

"I'm a murderer," Stiles interrupted. He wanted his tone flippant, but his guilt hung heavy on that word. He'd tried to move on after Donovan, but now he'd killed Fenris too, and without the excuses he'd had before. "Fenris wasn't the first. I know I'm not a hero, but I'm trying to do better instead of kidnapping and infecting other people. Hell, I'd at least be fool enough to run my experiments on myself."

"Let's not," Peter said. He stood and eyed Finch like he thought she might attack when he left Stiles' side. "I'm going to put on some water. Maybe Mrs. Finch can become her own subject at last."

Finch narrowed her eyes. "What's to stop you from poisoning me?"

"So you like my suggestion to try it on Haigh?" Stiles asked. "Just like you tried the last one on someone else."

She had the decency to flinch but said, "Just like you intend to use it on me," as her eyes tracked Peter to the kitchen.

"It's not the same," Scott said, voice miles calmer than his red eyes. "You're the one responsible, and it's time you took responsibility. I thought you were better than this."

Mason said, "She stood by when Nolan and Gabe attacked Liam. I thought that was the Anuk-Ite's fault."

"Doing nothing when you have the power to help is wrong," Scott agreed. "Causing harm yourself is worse."

Finch spun toward Scott. "He wasn't innocent! We found a monstrous alpha. He killed innocents and hunters, and when his pack slowed his escape, he killed them too. We did the world a favor in stopping him."

"And Fenris?" Scott asked.

"An accident. The alpha escaped and bit him. Fenris managed to stop his escape only by killing him. We tried to find a cure together, but Fenris lost control as he became sicker. I knew instinct would drive him to bite after he ran, to try to build a pack to protect himself, so I went out to find the poor souls he infected so I could save them, even if it was too late for him. I knew no one would agree to come with me because they couldn't understand the threat, and Stiles proved even more difficult to manage than expected."

"Did you consider that you might just be terrible at keeping prisoners?" Stiles asked. "That's like three escapes, if you don't count Peter separately."

Peter had stepped out of the kitchen to watch and nodded his head at that, though Finch's eyes stayed on Stiles.

"We were trying to save you, Stiles," Finch insisted as she turned back to him.

"Then save me now." He motioned to her bag. "Hand those over and drink the tea. If it works, you're free to go with another dose for Haigh."

Finch asked, "How confident are you of this tea?"

Stiles shrugged even though it hurt his shoulder. He held the pain from his expression. "Not enough to want to go first, but it's all we've got, which is more than you've got, since what you've got is nothing and what we've got is an idea about some tea backed up by the lack of ichor we've got compared to the abundance you've got."

She blinked a few times as she processed that. "How did you build your hypothesis?"

"It's based on an Irish legend and past experience with a mutated virus that was lethal only to supernaturals."

Finch frowned. "That's not a lot."

"You're right. After Fenris was infected, did you use wolfsbane to calm him down before he started working with you?"

"We had to. You know firsthand what he was going through." After a pause she added, "You seem to be handling it better than he did, but he retained enough lucidity to help me work on a true cure, sometimes."

Frowning, Stiles asked, "What did your rigorous study and scientific method get you?"

"Nothing that worked." She looked to Scott, then to Mason. "I'm not a villain, and I never meant for this to happen." She turned back to Stiles. "I'll try the tea."

Mason bristled at Argent's side. "If you don't want to be a villain, you shouldn't work with them to do villainous things."

"Isn't Peter Hale a villain?" Finch asked.

"Former," Scott corrected, "and he's trying to do better."

"If he relapses?"

"We'll stop him."

Peter rolled his eyes at that and motioned Mason to fetch Finch's bag. Peter might have been able to handle it himself, even assuming rowan berries could repel the supernatural like its wood, but they didn't have time to take chances.

Argent insisted on taking the bag from Finch and handing it to Mason, who only hesitated a moment before carrying it to the kitchen to brew the tea.

Stiles scoffed. "We won't need to fight Peter again. We'll just send in Malia."

Finch tilted her head too arrogantly for Stiles' liking. "The way I heard it, he's killed his own niece. A man who could do that could kill anyone."

"We know him better than you do," Stiles argued.

"Can you be sure?"

"I had my claws in his spine, so I'm pretty fucking sure."

Her eyes widened in surprise.

"I've heard... disquieting rumors about Peter Hale's mind." Finch spoke slowly, feeling her way through the sentence.

"That I'm insane or that my sister made me so?" Peter asked with a toothy sneer that echoed the malice of his voice.

"Both, and that you weren't right even before she took time from you. I hadn't heard anything about you going soft."

"Is that what you call it?" Peter's measured words each carried its own edge.

Finch looked into his eyes for a long time before answering. "No, it's not. No one really believed you could continue to heal. Some scars are just too deep."

"I came back from the dead, sweetheart. Try not to underestimate me."

Stiles frowned. "Don't call other people sweetheart."

"Sorry, dear." Peter smirked and somehow made it fond. "I'll find another way to condescend."

"I usually find 'heartless, selfish monster' works," Stiles said.

Peter grimaced. "A bit too pot calling the kettle for me."

"Fair." Stiles considered. "'Willing to work with Haigh' might be insult enough."

"He's been useful," Finch muttered.

"He was a deputy who turned bounty hunter. The only reason he never went after my dad was that human names didn't make the dead pool."

Finch's brows furrowed. "So you consider it a greater betrayal for your father's employees to become enemies?"

"His job was to help people!"

"His job was to enforce the law," she corrected. "He failed at that too, but there is a difference." After a moment, Finch added, "I didn't choose Haigh. Fenris was already planning to free him to learn about the sonic weapon, and I got roped into their deal when I approached Fenris for help with the cure."

"Poor you," Stiles growled.

Finch glowered.

"And the Desert Wolf?" Stiles asked.

"Even with Haigh's weapons, we couldn't capture the alpha."

"So you bribed Corinne with power and got her to help you."

Finch nodded. "Her experience more than compensated for her weakness."

"She's not the only one who can fight monsters," Scott said. "Choosing a criminal to help you has to mean you knew what you were doing was wrong."

Finch turned toward him a moment but didn't answer.

Stiles scowled and changed the subject. "How did you hide your scents? The voice boxes were basically a gimmick, but it was like you were completely scentless."

"Some sort of ritual with witch hazel that the Desert Wolf learned as an assassin. It's effects are temporary, so we avoided prolonged contact with you."

"And you and Fenris worked on the main attraction?"

Finch nodded, though her eyes kept darting toward the kitchen.

"What made you think it could work?"

"Weakened werewolves lose access to their power, making them more human. We hypothesized that strategically weakening a werewolf's power could allow us to alter it. The mountain ash was supposed to literally push the power out."

"Did you consider maybe not using poison powerful enough to kill a werewolf?"

"We considered every possibility."

Peter stepped away as she spoke and retuned with a mug that smelled more acidic than the tea Stiles had been drinking so far.

Finch eyed it warily, knees bent, ready to bolt.

"You keep saying we're not better than you," Stiles said, "or at least not as good as we'd like to think. But at least we never blamed the Anuk-Ite to excuse cowardice we'd show without it."

"You weren't even here," Finch spat.

"Stiles is the one who defeated it," Scott corrected.

"Back when I could handle mountain ash normally," Stiles added even though the plan had been Scott's. He had just needed Stiles' hands to make it work.

Finch stared at Stiles, considering.

Scott said, "You told me you left your pack because you couldn't live like they did, but you were just too scared to help them find a better way."

Finch snatched the mug and chugged the hot tea. At least she still felt shame.

With a cry, Finch collapsed.

Peter caught the mug as she fell and carried it to the kitchen without a backward glance.

Finch convulsed on the floor. She stretched a hand toward Scott in a silent plea for help, but he kept his distance. Peter and Mason agreed the process might be ugly and had warned the others to stand back while it passed. With time, the black lines of ichor on Finch's outstretched hand faded. Sweat stuck her hair to her face, but beneath it, the veins on Finch's face and neck had returned to normal as well.

She heaved herself to her feet and swayed before finding her balance.

"It worked," Stiles breathed.

"For now," Finch agreed. "Only time and more thorough examination can tell if it's permanent." She looked to Peter. "I'll take that dose for Haigh."

Peter waited for Stiles' nod of approval before fetching Finch a silver thermos. This time, Mason followed Peter back out of the kitchen. Finch opened it and smelled the acidic contents before nodding.

"He won't let me double cross you," Peter complained, "at least not unless you betrayed us first."

Finch motioned to the thermos. "Habit. You saw the people I've been working with."

Mason scowled, but he'd said what he thought of her alliances already, and Argent moved to his side, motioned him to silence just in case.

Peter, though, nodded. "You're lucky to have failed. Corinne would have killed you to make sure no one could use your cure on her."

He spoke like he knew Corinne even though he'd lost all the memories that should give him such confidence.

Finch narrowed her eyes. "Am I free to go?"

"I'm done with you," Stiles said.

"I'm not." Mason shrugged off Argent's hand.

"You're not a werewolf, Mason. You can't understand," Finch said.

Mason's jaw clenched. "Do you remember the huge, black-smoke werewolf? The one that nearly killed Monroe and inspired her to become a hunter with no code?"

Finch nodded slowly. She had obviously avoided the beast, but only those willfully blind to the supernatural could have avoided knowledge of it.

Mason's eyes were hard with anger and pain.

"That was me," he said.

"But you're not..."

"Not anymore. I _was_ a chimera created to be possessed by the Beast of Gévaudan. So, no, I'm not a werewolf, but I have been much worse."

Finch crossed her arms, but it didn't make her look brave so much as small.

Mason advanced. "I want you to look me in the eye and tell me even a bad man's life was worth so little that you thought your experiments were justified. I want you to say that knowing _I_ was the subject of the Dread Doctors' experiments to revive the most evil werewolf in history."

"I could have helped so many people, Mason. If you could have denied the wolf before it killed anyone, you would have. What if my work made that possible for someone else?"

"It didn't."

"There is nothing to be gained without risk, and every advancement has setbacks."

"Scott and Liam didn't want to be bitten, but how many people would be dead now if they hadn't turned?"

"How many would be alive if they hadn't?" She countered. "Stiles didn't want to be bitten. What if he could return to Scott's pack because I had cured him?"

"You're the reason Fenris bit him!"

"I'm right here," Stiles said.

"We both are," Scott added. "And I did want a cure. That's how I met Fenris. But some costs are too high. Derek made me believe the cost for my humanity would be Peter's life, and I tried to convince myself that because he was a monster, because he was a killer, and because he'd forced this on me, that price was acceptable. I tried to make the same choice you say is justified, but it was wrong."

"Also my nephew was the one who killed me," Peter said.

"You know I wouldn't have done it."

"Unfortunately." Peter grimaced, and at Scott's surprised look continued, "I died anyway. The least you could have done was kill me yourself."

"Am I getting a lecture because Scott doesn't have the stomach to kill his enemies?" Finch asked. "I thought you'd claimed a moral high ground, but you're just a coward."

"Better a coward than a killer, but I don't think either label fits me," Scott said. "I'd rather risk fighting the same enemy again than sacrifice any life for my own ends."

"When the killer escapes, every life he takes is your sacrifice, Scott." Finch's voice was stern, like she was lecturing a troubled student. "When the way you keep from killing unlocks the door to the next monster, its victims are your sacrifices too."

Stiles winced, though Finch faced away from him now.

Kate Argent had begun everything when she murdered the Hales. Then Peter drew in Gerard when he killed her. Derek created the kanima when he bit Jackson. Deucalion came seeking the town's alphas, and the darach followed to take her revenge. To stop them, Allison, Scott, and Stiles had sacrificed themselves to the nemeton, freeing the nogitsune and opening the door the Dread Doctors arrived through. Even the dead pool had technically been Peter's plan, though Meredith enacted it without his knowledge, memory, or consent. When they freed the town from the Wild Hunt, the pack had also freed the Anuk-Ite. Since the pack didn't kill Corinne and Haigh, both had returned to work with the people who made Stiles a monster.

The pack had never wanted or condoned the monsters that attacked their home, but sometimes they created them.

Scott said, "Someone else's actions aren't an excuse for your own. You aren't justified just because he was bad too."

Finch shook her head. "You said yourself: inaction is wrong. How are you better if your inaction is the means by which he acts? We're not so different, Scott. You just lie to yourself more. Most of your enemies wind up dead even though you refuse to kill them yourself."

"He's not like you," Stiles said. "We aren't measured in the cumulative total of how much harm the world suffers. You're just using the help you could offer to excuse what you want for yourself. Scott wants to help others. No one can be perfect, but at least Scott is good."

Stiles felt the shift in himself as he spoke. Peter stumbled back against the dining table, and for a moment, Stiles feared he'd left him behind. Peter's eyes grew wide staring at the same people Stiles felt himself reconnected to. It had been ten years since Peter fully experienced the same connection that Stiles missed after only ten days.

Pack.

Scott was alpha, but so was Stiles. In feeling that, explicitly, as a werewolf and an alpha, Stiles realized Scott had never been alpha the way Peter imagined them or the way Talia had been. He was a leader because he brought his friends together, not because he commanded them. It made him less effective sometimes and gave him room for excuses, but it also left room for his pack to support and better each other outside of his experience or command.

Argent sensed a change, or saw Peter stumble, and pulled Finch away. Mason glared after her but stayed behind. Corey appeared beside him and took his hand.

Scott rushed Stiles to pull him into a hug.

"Shoulder! Shoulder!" Stiles slapped at Scott's back.

"Sorry." Scott relaxed his grip with a wince. "I missed you."

"Yeah, I realized you'd never survive without me." Stiles patted Scott's arm with a lopsided grin. "Can't even convince a mad scientist you're a less terrible person than she is without me stepping in to remind her you literally don't murder people."

"Can't really blame her. I couldn't convince my best friend either."

"He's a stubborn asshole." Stiles half-shrugged with his right shoulder. "He came around."

Peter tapped Scott's shoulder. "We have more pressing business. If Stiles thrashes, don't let him hurt himself."

Scott nodded.

Peter handed a mug to Stiles before retrieving his own from the table and taking a seat on the floor. He raised his mug in a silent toast before downing it. He didn't cry out, but Stiles didn't wait to see him convulse.

Stiles chugged his own magic poison healing tea. It had cooled enough not to burn, but the poisons stung anyway. He nearly spat it out as his body tried to reject it. His throat spasmed in a vain attempt not to even touch it. Scott held Stiles to his chair even as Stiles jerked forward, clawing at his own neck with weak, human fingernails still strong enough to leave raw scratches.

The tea left an itching burn through his throat. Ichor climbed its way up to spill over Stiles' lips onto his lap and Scott's arms, and it stung like dry ice against his raw throat. More ichor, unable to escape, boiled in his veins as the cure spread through his body with supernatural speed. As weak as he was, Stiles was shocked he stayed conscious.

He wasn't as weak as yesterday. He had Scott back. He had his pack.

The pain passed at last. One moment it flowed through his body with his blood, and the next it was gone, leaving an almost familiar exhaustion in its wake.

Mason held a glass of water out to Stiles and explained, "Vomiting dehydrates you."

"Peter?" Stiles asked.

"He's fine," Argent said. He stood over them like a guard as Corey helped Peter sit up and drink from his own glass of water.

"You're both going to be fine." Scott pulled Stiles into another hug.

.

In Peter's room, Stiles lay with his head on Peter's chest tracing the geometric lines of Peter's sweater with a lazy finger.

"It's nicer in here," Stiles said.

The loft's other rooms retained hints Derek's angry hobo aesthetic. This one more resembled the master bedroom of an uptown apartment, fully furnished and styled. There were even paintings on the walls and a cushioned bench below the window.

"Of course it is. It's mine." Peter smirked, though the angle he turned his head to look down at Stiles made him look silly, like he'd turned his phone camera on after telling a self-congratulatory joke.

They weren't entirely alone, but those packmates who hadn't left gave them space for now. Peter had chosen time with Stiles over taking down the decorations.

"Do you stay here sometimes?" Stiles asked.

It made sense to have a backup residence in case Peter's apartment was compromised or, as had happened now, unsuitable for his specific needs, but this room felt too lived in for a mere ten days. Derek's bed hadn't even fully absorbed Stiles' scent in that amount of time.

"I have my own apartment."

"I know. That isn't what I asked."

"I stay here sometimes," Peter admitted.

The smirk faded from Peter's lips, and Stiles moved his finger to trace the line of the frown that replaced it. Peter caught his hand and kissed his fingers.

"You aren't like the others," Stiles said, though he knew full well Peter couldn't know what he meant.

"I'm not like anyone," Peter agreed.

"That's the reason I hesitated, why I was afraid to sleep with you. Casual sex is easy with some people, but you're not one of them."

"I'm impossible to get over?"

"You've both tried to kill me and saved my life more than once."

"In that order, which is a sign of progress."

"I'm trying to be serious."

"I know." The smirk had returned, though it was shallow with Peter's discomfort.

Stiles shoved an accusing finger in Peter's face. "Even before you were important to me, you were an important figure in my life. You loomed over everything starting the night you bit my best friend. You literally changed my life, Peter."

"I'd like to change it again." Peter took Stiles' hand again, this time slipping Stiles' finger between his lips.

Stiles scowled. Peter wasn't taking him seriously. "You like to travel, and I've already proven I can't handle distance."

Peter released Stiles' hand, and Stiles snatched his finger back from Peter's mouth.

Peter said, "I could travel to DC."

"To hang around a college student with barely any time for you?"

"To visit the National Gallery of Art daily."

"I don't understand why you care about me enough to even want to try."

"Malia is not the only person I ever loved. I even learned to love my pack after her birth, despite Talia's theft. Malia was the _first_ person I ever loved, but you were the first to notice I even could."

"Your sister entered your mind to block the memories."

She should have seen them.

Peter half-shrugged one shoulder. "She didn't spend any time with them.

Stiles growled deep in his chest.

Peter said, "She thought she was granting me privacy."

"Like that's even possible while literally reshuffling your memories to her liking?"

"I didn't say she was right." He laced his fingers through Stiles'. "She wasn't great to me, but I wasn't great to her either. For most of the others, she was a good alpha, but I don't want to talk about her right now."

"That's reasonable," Stiles admitted. The only thing talking about her achieved was bringing up old memories. He put on a cheerful expression to say, "The National gallery closes at five. Does that mean you can cook for me?"

"If I feel like it."

"What would make you feel like it?"

Peter leaned over to kiss Stiles, letting his lips linger long enough for Stiles to return the kiss, lengthening it to a perfect moment finally standing still long enough to enjoy before it passes.

"I think I can manage that," Stiles said as a slow smile spread over his face.

Peter slid his hands to the hem of Stiles' shirt and asked, "This too?"

With Finch's serum burned out and the pack bolstering him, most of Stiles' wounds had closed. He could move again, though with stiffness and aches enough to warn him not to move too much.

"Not a lot," Stiles admitted.

Peter pulled his hands back and cupped Stiles' cheek instead. "Later, then."

"Later," Stiles agreed as he pulled Peter in for another kiss.

.

Malia had pulled Peter away for a whispered conversation. Stiles didn't listen in more because Peter had the sound of a thunderstorm playing on his phone to drown out their voices than because Stiles had ever learned respect for others' privacy.

No one else showed up to entertain Stiles, so he fiddled about on his phone for a few minutes. Nothing held his attention no matter how many apps he flipped through. With a sigh, Stiles dropped his phone on the coffee table and grabbed one of the books left strewn about by their research. Christmas hadn't seemed a strong enough reason to put them away.

Stiles flipped past descriptions of monsters both familiar and strange. The handwriting on this journal was cramped but simple enough to read, It had faded only slightly over the years, and even the cover showed only the slightest wear at the corners.

He shoved a page on wendigos aside with too much force; thankfully, Peter couldn't hear the page tear. It was just a little rip at the inside corner. He'd probably never open the thing again to notice it. Stiles turned a thick stack of pages to hide the one he'd damaged, just in case.

The page he turned to had a drawing of a man with a black spiral on his stomach. Most of the notes had question marks next to them. _Trickster? Created or born? Afflicted human?_ With a sigh for the hopelessness of even experienced monster hunters, Stiles continued flipping pages.

Whoever wrote this bestiary hadn't used any sort of order or page numbers, so Stiles didn't have any warning before he stopped on the page for nogitsune.

This had been a hunter's journal originally. Each monster's description included its known weaknesses and guides for defeating it. Under nogitsune, the hunter had written, _Pray the oni come and don't want you too._

Stiles ran a finger over the line. The oni had been too weak to fight the nogitsune that possessed him. What would this hunter advise if the oni fell to the nogitsune?

Before learning he was the nogitsune, Stiles had forgotten it, but afterward he remembered facing the oni in the hospital and confronting Noshiko to let her know she and her fireflies could neither harm nor scare him. He remembered driving his fist into the shadowy creature's chest and crushing the firefly that served as its heart. He remembered smirking at Noshiko and knowing if the oni couldn't touch him, nothing could.

He remembered the nogitsune was still out there, trapped in a hidden box because no one was strong enough to kill it.

Stiles shoved the book aside and tugged the bone-handle knife from his pocket to draw his fingers over the carvings.

He knew Peter was lying. A careless gift from Peter would be expensive, like the car he offered Malia before Monroe blew it up. Maybe it would have come from the vault, but it would have value. Stiles supposed he could have the knife appraised, but he doubted it would come to much. Wear on the blade indicated the knife had seen heavy use, so it hadn't been ornamental or collectable.

If the knife wasn't worth money, it had to be worth something more important. Peter was too dramatic to give away meaningless trinkets for the sake of having something to give. He'd given gifts only to Malia and Stiles at Christmas.

The storm stopped playing from Peter's phone, and he returned with Malia to the living room.

Stiles looked up from the knife to ask Peter, "Are you ashamed of the real reason you wanted me to have this?"

Peter rolled his eyes and dropped onto the couch beside Stiles. "Of course not." He didn't sound like he was lying, but Peter never did.

Malia took the nearer armchair and set her feet on a stack of books on the table. Peter shoved her feet aside and moved the books before she put her feet back up.

"Can you at least tell me _why_ you won't tell me about this?" Stiles shoved the knife under Peter's nose.

"What makes you so sure there's something to tell?" Peter set his hand over Stiles' to push it away from his face.

Malia said, "You're a liar, and you said there wasn't."

Peter gave her a flat look.

Stiles snickered. "She's not wrong."

"It's my family too," said Malia, "but you never tell me about them."

"They're dead," Peter said.

"That's not a reason to forget them," Malia argued.

Peter eyed them both suspiciously before sighing so deeply his shoulders fell and his chin sank nearly to his chest.

He said, "My father was human."

Stiles' grip tightened on the knife unconsciously. "This was _your father's?"_

Peter nodded.

"Why didn't you want me to know that?" Stiles asked.

Peter's shoulder twitched.

Malia said, "You didn't tell me my grandfather was human."

"What difference would it have made?" Peter asked.

Stiles answered, "It makes a difference to you."

Peter frowned. "Being human killed him."

"You mean he couldn't heal," Stiles said.

Peter sneered. "He died peacefully of old age in his bed surrounded by friends and family while my mother still looked barely fifty, all because he never accepted the bite."

Stiles bit back his next question. Peter was thirty-eight. Even knowing there was an age gap between him and Talia, Stiles would have expected Peter's parents to be aging only now if not for the fire. How old were they when Peter was born? How old was Peter when his father died?

Malia said, "If he'd lived, he would have died in the fire."

"At least it wouldn't be something he chose," Peter growled.

Stiles said, "I think it would be nice to choose to die happy."

Peter scowled. "That's why I gave you his knife."

Malia asked, "How do you want to die, Peter?"

"I'd rather I didn't." Peter sneered.

"You can't—" Malia cut off as the door slammed open.

Braeden charged in with all the subtlety of a rhinoceros, swept the room with her eyes, and lowered her shotgun.

She said, "I lost the Desert Wolf. She laid a false trail that I was fool enough to follow. Expect her to come for you." The last she directed at Malia.

Stiles pointed out, "We were sort of in the middle of a thing."

"Just be glad I got here before she did." Braeden leveled too serious a stare at Stiles, which implied she meant the statement wholeheartedly.

"She hasn't come for me yet," Malia reminded Braeden.

Braeden shrugged. "Argent said you cured what they created. That means her allies are through, and she's got nothing left to wait for."

"Assuming their evil cabal disbands once they're better," Stiles said.

Finch hadn't seemed entirely convinced she'd done wrong.

"I'd rather assume the worst than be too late to help Malia," Braeden countered.

Malia said, "I can take care of myself."

"I said 'help,' not 'save,'" Braeden reminded her. "Besides, these two are still healing. She might try to use them against you."  
"I'm better," Stiles insisted.

"Doesn't mean you're at full strength," Braeden said.

"Neither is Corinne. Malia took her power already," Stiles said.

"And she still nearly killed you twice now." Braeden took the second armchair, clearly not about to leave without Malia.

"That was the bullets," Stiles grumbled with a growl since he couldn't think of a better argument.

"Amazing how fast you take to that." Braeden motioned to Stiles. "It's not like you were a big grunter before, or whatever the human equivalent would be."

Stiles narrowed his eyes, not sure what she meant to imply.

Malia said, "You never got to know Stiles, did you?"

Braeden tilted her head, curious but not enough to ask aloud.

"He's always been angry," Malia explained.

Stiles turned his squinted gaze on her, though he thought she was defending him.

"Maybe anger isn't what supernatural monsters need," Braeden said.

"I'm _right here,"_ Stiles reminded them. "Why do people constantly talk about me like I'm not?"

Peter told Braeden, "Saying we don't need anger is equal to saying we shouldn't have emotions like humans do."

Braeden shrugged, "Some of you just have too much."

Stiles complained, "You all are making me listen to this with my own ears. Can't you protect Malia from outside?"

"I don't know which entrance they'll use," Braeden said with a one-shouldered shrug.

Malia stood. "I can leave."

"You shouldn't have to," Stiles argued.

"She shouldn't have to worry her own mother is out to kill her," Braeden said.

Malia frowned. "If you could track her, you'd be out there now, right?"

"You know it."

"So why don't I go somewhere I can lure her out and get rid of her?" Malia suggested.

Braeden nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

"Scott wouldn't want you to kill her," Stiles reminded Malia.

"I did it Scott's way last time, and she came back." Malia crossed her arms.

"Malia's right," Peter said.

"We're not supposed to kill people," Stiles argued, knowing he'd broken that tenet twice already. He didn't want to get used to killing, to be okay with it.

"That doesn't mean we can't," Peter said.

"I tried not to kill her," Malia said again. "I tried. It didn't work. What else do you expect me to do?"

"Let me do it," Braeden offered. "I'm not part of your pack. I can do what I want."

"Letting you kill doesn't absolve us of responsibility," Stiles told her.

"What about how you let Derek kill me?" Peter asked.

Stiles grimaced. "I mixed the cocktail that lit you on fire, so, technically, I actively helped kill you."

"You two have such a functional relationship based on a history of trust and respect," Braeden said dryly.

"You dumped Derek because you needed to get your murderin' on." Stiles accused, jabbing a finger at Braeden.

Braeden shrugged.

Malia marched to the door, saying, "Call Scott if you have to, but I'm going to stop my mom."

She left with Braeden in tow and didn't seem to notice the satisfied smirk Braeden leveled at the wolves they left behind.

"You're actually calling Scott to tattle?" Peter asked as Stiles pulled out his phone.  
"Texting," Stiles corrected and sent, **Malia and Braeden just left, plan to lure out DW and kill her.**

Scott called immediately, so Stiles answered with a sigh, "I don't know more. I tried to talk them out of it."

"I'll find them," Scott promised. "You stay safe."

"Roger roger." Stiles ended the call with an eyeroll.

"So does that mean Scott's the alpha alpha?" Peter asked, more than a hint of a taunt in his voice.

"He's never been a dictator. I texted him because he can help Malia better than I can right now." Stiles scowled. "Don't think changing the subject will make me forget you sided against me."

"Don't be wrong, and I won't have to."

"I saw your memory. You never loved Corinne, but I think you cared for her. Are you sure you're okay with killing someone important to you?"

"Laura was more important by far," Peter growled, "and I killed her fine."

"You weren't the same person then."

"Corinne gave up what little concern I might have had when she tried to kill my daughter."

"Fair," Stiles conceded.

"But you still think we should do things Scott's way."

"In my experience, killing someone only takes care of the immediate threat. There are always consequences." Stiles studied his claws. The transformation would have been easier if he had let Fenris live, if Stiles had changed into a beta.

"Letting them live has consequences too," Peter said.

"Then it's worth choosing the method that feels more like good."

"Killing feels good to me."

"I meant good like just and right, not pleasurable."

Peter shrugged.

Stiles asked, "Does it really feel good to you?"

Peter's cocky grin faltered. "Power and victory feel good. It's enough."

"It's not the same."

"It doesn't feel bad enough that I care to stop."

"But it still feels bad, doesn't it? Your eyes don't turn blue if you don't feel guilt."

"You're not going to convince me killing isn't an option," Peter sighed.

"I'd settle for convincing you to follow my lead for as long as there's another way."

"You'll accept it if I kill as a last resort?"

"So long as it _is_ a last resort."

"I can handle that for now."

Stiles let the "for now" go, for now.

.

Noah spent most of the day working, but Stiles received a text from him after dinner.

 **Any chance you're ready to come home, Son?**

Stiles tapped idly on the table as he considered.

The danger had been his reason for staying in the loft, but with Finch cured, had she also been pacified? Stiles drank the cure too, so they wouldn't need him for their experiments. With no way to continue, Finch would have to end her experiment.

Or start over.

Stiles had bitten Haigh. The cure wouldn't make him human again, and he seemed the type to lash out.

Stiles sent, **Have you found Haigh and Corinne yet?**

 **No.**

 **I think I need to wait a little longer. Sorry, Dad.**

Stiles pictured the way Noah would sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. He'd seen that sigh too often not to.

 **Be safe, kid. I'll talk to you tomorrow.**

 **Love you, Dad.**

 **Love you too.**

Stiles frowned at his phone. Finding the cure and cowing Finch had felt like a victory just this morning, but they hadn't actually stopped anyone.

Peter leaned over the chair back to put his arms around Stiles.

"You miss your house?" he asked Stiles.

"Are you reading my texts over my shoulder?" Stiles squirmed to turn and glare at Peter.

"You left the screen on like you wanted me to."

"You know I didn't."

"And you know I still would." He kissed the top of Stiles' head as he stood upright. "Would you rather watch Netflix on my laptop, or do something more interesting?"

"So you _do_ watch TV!" Stiles accused.

"I'm not Derek," Peter said like that explained everything.

"I assume Netflix and Chill is old enough that you've heard of it."

"I don't know if I'm more offended by your implication or that you're correct," Peter complained.

"Good." Stiles grabbed Peter's hand to lead him across the loft.


	13. More Than Strength

December 16th is a Sunday instead of a Tuesday this year. The fact that this is set four years ago is the primary reason I didn't post these on their corresponding days. I mean, I also don't want to post on Christmas or be trapped into a posting schedule in case something happens... or have to wait three days like I would have for this chapter XP

 **Chapter Thirteen: More Than Strength**

 _Monday, December 29, 2014_

"We've been searching all weekend, Stiles." Noah waved a hand to thank Peter as he set a plate in front of Noah.

"Yeah, that's like three days, which is hardly any time at all," Stiles argued, already shoveling curry into his mouth.

Over the weekend, Peter and Stiles had resumed anchor training while the rest of the pack worried about the wolfcepticons. Peter had forced anyone who insisted on guarding the loft to take down the decorations while insisting he and Stiles were too busy to help.

Stiles hoped he would be ready in time for the full moon. He only had a week left. Remembering his friends' first few full moons, Stiles knew he would need every shred of experience he could amass. Hopefully almost dying counted extra.

"We'll keep searching, but there may not be anything to find." Noah sniffed his plate before trying a little of the sauce. The Stilinskis mostly ate American staples like cheeseburgers and curly fries, so curry was likely a bit out of his wheelhouse.

"You think they cut their losses and ran?" Peter asked as he took his own seat.

"Two of them are escaped convicts. When they're caught, they'll be put under heavier security to prevent another escape." Noah frowned. "Finch should join them, but we don't have any evidence against her. Any judge would laugh in our faces and throw out the case."

"I'll settle for putting away the other two," Stiles said.

Peter paused eating to frown over a spoonful of rice.

"You don't have to eat so fast," Noah told Stiles. "When you have food this good, you should enjoy it."

"I am enjoying it. With gusto."

"And don't talk with your mouth full."

Stiles shrugged.

Peter asked, "Are we letting Finch off entirely or waiting to scold her after we deal with her more historically criminal companions?"

"I haven't thought about it," Stiles admitted.

Noah said, "I'm sure Scott wants to have a very serious conversation with her, and I'm inclined to join him."

"She's an alpha," Peter said. "Maybe she doesn't deserve to be."

Stiles frowned. "You want her to pass it to you?"

"I want her to give it up or lose it. It's only a bonus if I get the power next." Peter gave a predator's toothy smile that set Noah to glowering at him.

Stiles said, "The night I was bitten, you didn't really have any ulterior motive. You just agreed to whatever I suggested to keep me calm and make me trust you."

"Guilty."

"Did I give you the idea for this?"

"Hardly."

Noah frowned harder. "You two are talking about Peter being an alpha again."

"Yeah," Stiles confirmed, though it hadn't been a question.

"I'm against it," Noah told them.

"Noted," Peter drawled.

Noah turned back to Stiles. "How long do they have to be gone before you'll come home?"

Stiles shook his head. "The full moon is next Monday, and I have class the Monday after that."

"So, summer." Noah sighed.

"Very likely," Stiles agreed.

Noah set down his spoon to take Stiles' free hand. "I know it's to protect me. I do appreciate that you care, but this place has terrible security, and Peter's too old to be your boyfriend. You'll have to keep bribing me with regular meals at least."

Stiles snickered.

"I'm sure I can provide," Peter promised.

Stiles knew Noah wouldn't really dictate who he could date, but he suspected the meals were as much pretense to keep an eye on Peter as they were bribe or joke.

Realizing he only had two weeks left of break reminded Stiles he only had two weeks left with Peter, less counting travel time. Stiles didn't know for certain that Peter would follow him to DC. It would place him farther from Malia, and Stiles guessed there must be a reason Peter always returned to Beacon Hills, an attachment to the city that time away was slowly teaching Stiles he lacked. Stiles cared about the people here, not the town. He hoped _not_ to move back after college.

Noah still had Stiles' hand and gave it a squeeze. Stiles answered with a grin, and they returned to their meal.

After Noah left for a late shift at the station, Stiles helped Peter clear the table.

Peter still wanted to be alpha. Since Stiles had rejoined Scott's pack, he knew that didn't necessarily mean Peter wanted to leave Stiles, but if Peter killed in cold blood for power alone, Stiles wasn't sure he could bear to stay with him. He knew Peter had done exactly that in the past, but Stiles hadn't loved that version of Peter. Stiles knew alpha and evil weren't the same, but when he thought of Peter as an alpha, he still pictured the beast chasing him through the school. He pictured Lydia lying in the field with Peter over her and Peter's nurse stuffed into the trunk of a car. It was the wrong Peter.

"You need a dishwasher," Stiles said as he turned on the sink to let the water warm.

"Is that why you're frowning like that?" Peter smirked. "Or were you, perhaps, distracted by other thoughts?"

Stiles winced.

"Care to share?" Peter asked.

"Not sure you'd care to hear."

Peter tilted his head in thought. "Let's give it a try and find out together."

Stiles bit at his lip a moment before shrugging off the tension to ask, "Why does being alpha matter so much to you?"

"You know alphas are most powerful."

"On average, maybe, but a beta can be stronger, or the rank would only change hands peacefully. You can be strong without it."

Peter leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. "Power is more than strength. The alpha is in charge and can make decisions for the rest of the pack."

"Oh." Stiles looked down, unable to meet Peter's gaze as he said, "Like Talia made decisions for you."

Peter's lip twitched nearly into a snarl. "As an omega, I was free of an alpha's control, but also of a pack's protection."

"You know I wouldn't do what she did," Stiles assured him.

"Neither would Talia at your age." Peter's voice hardened to the point of brittleness, but he brought it back from the brink with a deep breath. "But you may note I _am_ in your pack."

Stiles nodded, though the motion felt too dumb to answer Peter's trust. "Why don't you want to take it from me?"

"You earned it, and I'm in love with you."

Stiles sputtered.

Peter continued, "Obviously, I haven't always been attracted to you. As gangly and obnoxious a teen as you made, it's a wonder I ever realized I cared whether you died, much less considered you worthy of being my pack."

"That helps, somehow," Stiles stammered, though he noticed Peter omitted how long ago his feelings had shifted.

"When my sister became alpha, she bested our mother, just not fatally. It's common practice among established and family packs, to keep the alpha from deteriorating with age or being killed for power, especially by an outsider. I couldn't beat Talia at the time, and I always assumed she earned her power, even when I thought she wasted it. After the fire, I believed her attempts at coexistence with other supernatural beings and humans were her weakness, the fatal flaw that brought the once-great Hale pack low.

"Scott, on the other hand, didn't fight for his power. It manifested spontaneously because his pack lacked another alpha after Derek sacrificed his spark to save Cora. Scott refused to kill, and I equated that with Talia's weakness and tried to crush it, crush him if that was what it took." Peter sighed. "I realize _now_ that I was still... unwell, no matter how loudly or frequently I claimed otherwise."

"Don't you worry the alpha's power might make you sick again?" Stiles asked.

"I lost my mind because I burned nearly to death in the fire that took my family from me, not because I became an alpha. That's just what I was when you met me."

Stiles nodded. "Sorry."

"I'd rather get it out of the way now, to be honest," Peter said. "I know how your mind picks at problems."

If Peter had expected to be done with Stiles in two weeks, it would be easier to avoid hard topics than to sort through them early. Did he truly intend to stay with Stiles?

 _He said he's in love with you, asshole,_ Stiles reminded himself. _Of course he intends to stay together._

Stiles couldn't tell if he liked that better or worse. He'd realized before Christmas that he had fallen for Peter, but he wondered if that was enough. Stiles and Lydia had loved each other too.

Stiles said, "I'm not ready to say I love you back."

"I don't expect you to," Peter scoffed. "That's not why I told you."

"You needed me to believe what you said, and a lie would make me suspicious. It was... tactical," Stiles realized.

Peter nodded.

Stiles asked, "You don't mind if we're not on the same page, like, emotionally?"

"Stiles, I'm almost two decades older than you and a former lunatic. I'd be concerned if we were 'on the same page.'"

"Okay, that's fair." He narrowed his eyes. "Too fair. You have never been known for emotional maturity."

Peter pointed to the still-running tap behind Stiles. "I know we can afford it, but that's no reason to waste so much water."

Stiles grabbed the stopper and dish soap to fill the sink.

"Do _you_ mind?" Peter asked after Stiles turned his back. "Do you need someone who can meet you where you are now?"

"I don't know," Stiles admitted. "I'm sorry." He stared at the rising bubbles in the sink, not sure if he was afraid to see Peter's expression or of what his own would give away.

"Are we allowed to stay together while you think it over?" Peter stepped up behind Stiles and let his hands linger just shy of touching Stiles' hips. "I promise to make more mousse if we can."

Stiles turned and grabbed Peter's hands to set them in place before leaning in for a kiss. "I'll allow it."

Closing the topic with a grin, even if it could mean giving Peter up later made it easier to carry. Stiles hadn't been the one to lighten the conversation, and he wondered if Peter had done it for him, or if this was just part of what drew Stiles to Peter in the first place.

They finished cleaning in relative silence, stealing kisses like a normal couple. By the time they finished, Stiles' fingers had pruned, but Peter kissed the tip of each one as he drew Stiles to the couch.

"This is what TVs are for," Stiles said as they cuddled.

"But you'd miss something when I kiss you."

"That is what reruns are for."

Peter rolled his eyes.

Stiles' phone rang. Peter groaned but released Stiles so he could free it from his pocket.

"It's my dad," Stiles said and answered, "Hey, Dad, what's up?"

"We found Finch and Haigh."

"Where? I'll get Peter to drive—"

Noah interrupted, "They're dead."

"You didn't find Corinne," Stiles said.

"It looked like an animal attack, an incredibly vicious one."

"But we gave Finch the cure."

"Maybe the Desert Wolf didn't like dissolving their team before she got what she wanted. I've got the department on alert, but there's not much they can do if she's got her power back."

"More," Stiles corrected. "Corinne wasn't an alpha before."

"She knows where you are," Noah warned.

"I'm not the one she wants anymore."

"I'll call Malia," Noah said. "Is there anywhere safe she can hide?"

Peter said, "You won't be able to take her now," and Stiles turned to find him on the phone.

Stiles said, "Peter heard and is calling Malia now."

Noah hummed confirmation.

Peter said, "You won't find her before she finds you, but with enough of us together, we can stop her."

Stiles focused his hearing to pick up Malia's side of the conversation as well.

She said, "You can't guard me forever. She'll just wait until we let our guard down."

"Normally, she would," Peter agreed. "But if she's just become an alpha, she may ride that rush right into our claws."

"Finch is dead?" Malia asked.

"Haigh too. Just got word from the sheriff."

"I already planned an ambush with Braeden."

"You planned an ambush for a powerless assassin, not an alpha with the Desert Wolf's skills."

Malia hesitated. "I'll see you in twenty minutes. Get the others too."

Stiles told Noah, "Malia's on her way here. Peter thinks becoming an alpha will make Corinne reckless."

"Enough to attack the entire pack on her own?" Noah asked.

Stiles considered. "I ran away because I was afraid of hurting people, not because I believed for a second that any of you could stop me. The power is a lot to take. I think Peter's right."

"I'll send Parrish too," Noah said.

Between them, Stiles and Peter contacted the rest of Scott's pack. Malia arrived first, with Scott in tow, already arguing about how to handle Corinne.

In a pleading tone, Scott said, "You told me you were glad we used the talons."

"Well, I was wrong." Malia scowled.

"Malia, you're not a killer," Scott insisted.

She flashed her blue eyes with a growl.

"The Desert Wolf caused the crash that killed your mom and sister. You know it wasn't your fault," Scott said. "Your eyes changed because you felt guilty, not because you're responsible."

"Stiles!" Malia called, charging forward to drag Stiles to Scott by his arm. "Tell Scott that my mom won't stop unless we kill her."

"Why me?" Stiles asked. "And where's Braeden?"

Malia frowned. "She stopped for supplies. She'll be here soon."

Peter said, "I agree with Malia."

"I know _you_ do." Scott shook his head. "If we kill them, how can we say we're better than monsters?"

"We _are_ monsters," Stiles pointed out.

"But we're not villains!"

"You can be a killer without being a villain," Peter said.

"I know, but, no offense," Scott turned back to Malia, "Peter's is not the opinion we need on moral issues."

"I didn't ask him," Malia reminded Scott.

Scott said, "Stiles agrees with me."

"He said we're monsters," Malia said.

"But he doesn't think we should kill people."

"Do monsters count as people?" Peter asked.

"Yes!" Scott nearly shouted. He reigned himself in with a groan. "The Desert Wolf is an escaped convict. We should turn her in."

"So she can rip the cops to shreds?" Stiles asked.

"See." Malia gestured to Stiles.

"I didn't mean we should kill anyone," Stiles clarified.

"We still have Belasko's talons," Scott said. "We can drain her again before sending her back."

"We've been through this," Malia growled, "and I'm tired of arguing in circles."

"Who gets Corinne's power?" Peter asked.

"Not you," Scott snapped.

Peter sneered.

"You and Stiles aren't recovered enough to be on the front lines," Scott added. "You shouldn't have convinced Malia to come here."

"We're fine," Stiles insisted. He was stiff, but his wounds were fully closed, and his knee only ached a little.

"Just because you can lie doesn't mean you can fool me. It's only been a few days." Scott shoved Stiles' shoulder hard enough to make him wince.

"I mean, I wouldn't take her alone," Stiles admitted. "But we're well enough for a group effort."

Scott frowned, clearly unconvinced.

"I've been trying to hunt her down or lure her out with Braeden," Malia said, "but we haven't seen her. She's come after Stiles and Peter too, so maybe all of us together will lure her out."

"That was for their experiment, and that's over now," Scott said.

"I think she still hates them," Malia said.

"I do."

The group spun to find Corinne silhouetted against the windows. She must have come through the balcony entrance while they distracted themselves arguing over her. The rest of the pack had yet to arrive.

Stiles had just enough time to wonder if she had intentionally positioned herself so the boarded window wouldn't block her silhouette before she drew and aimed her guns.

Corinne may have finally regained—and surpassed—her previous power, but she prepared to begin the bloodbath at range.

"Shit," Stiles muttered even as he leapt aside.

Stiles smelled blood. In a calmer moment, he might have given the scent enough time to say whose.

Corinne laughed. "This _was_ a trap, right? Are you all really this incompetent?"

"Maybe!" Stiles shouted, crouched even though the couch proved a bit squishy for cover.

He couldn't see, but Stiles had been training his other senses. Four other heartbeats filled the space. Corinne had moved into the room, but Stiles found her heartbeat the only one in the open.

Peter—Stiles could recognize Peter's heartbeat—was farther than the others, hidden in the kitchen though he must have crossed open area to reach it.

Malia and Scott hid behind furniture like Stiles. Their heartbeats sounded much alike to Stiles, so he distinguished them by which scent was closer—Malia's. It felt strange to recognize Peter so readily but not them. Stiles had been so close to Scott and Malia, but as a human.

"Are you trying to hide?" Corinne taunted.

The couch toppled. No time for musing. Stiles leapt forward and crashed into Corinne claws first. She fired, but not before he shoved her arm aside. The shot went wild.

Corinne snarled. Her eyes flashed red. Malia's arms snaked around her throat, claws ready to slice it, but Scott barreled into Corinne and Stiles' knees. They fell, and Malia's claws only scratched Corinne's cheek.

"Scott!" Malia growled.

"Thank you, Scott," Corinne taunted.

Stiles broke Corinne's right wrist. She lost one firearm. The other, she fired into Malia's stomach.

Peter roared from the kitchen. Frustration as much as rage.

Malia shrieked with more anger than pain. Scott pulled her away.

Stiles struggled against Corinne. She was strong. More, she was skilled. Corinne had completed countless assassinations without her powers. She struck Stiles' knee and shoulder. She forced him down. The barrel of her gun pressed against his forehead.

Scott slammed into Corinne. The gun fired past Stiles' ear.

Stiles scrambled away to Malia and reached her as she dropped the bullet from her stomach. It bounced as it landed and rolled away toward the door. The air smelled of Malia's blood as she pushed herself to stand with a grunt.

Corinne threw Scott against the boarded window. The wood cracked.

The door crashed open. Corinne dove forward and crashed into Braeden's legs as she charged the room.

Braeden rolled as she landed. She spun to aim a shotgun at Corinne's middle.

"Don't kill her!" Scott shouted.

Stiles threw himself at Corinne. His weight pushed her back as his body blocked Braeden's shot.

"This isn't a game!" Braeden shouted.

Malia roared. She leapt over Stiles to lash Corinne with her claws.

Braeden stalked forward, shotgun raised.

Scott pulled her aside. "We can't fight her _and_ each other. We need to incapacitate her and decide what to do next afterward."

"She'll be incapacitated when she's dead." Braeden took aim.

"Did that sound cool in your head?" Scott asked, when he snatched her weapon.

"A bit." Braeden drew a smaller handgun from beneath her jacket and fired twice before Scott disarmed her again.

One bullet hit the coffee table. The other pierced through Corinne's leg to Malia's arm.

Scott stopped her from firing again.

Stiles tackled Corinne. Malia growled.

Peter left the kitchen. He held a kitchen knife, its blade shiny and slick. He stabbed Corinne's injured leg, turned, and returned the blade to the kitchen. The sink ran, and he stepped into view drying his hands on a towel embroidered with snowmen.

Corinne had gone stiff. The blood flowing from her leg turned black and slow. She began to tremble.

Peter left his towel draped over the back of a dining chair. He righted one of the armchairs and took a seat, propping his right ankle on his left knee.

"What did you do?" Scott asked.

Peter didn't answer, but he frowned down at Corinne and Stiles as the darkness began to spread along her leg from the knife wound.

"Peter?" Malia asked in a gasping breath.

Peter's brows furrowed over shadowed blue eyes. He leaned forward as if pressed by increased gravity, and set his foot back to the floor to rest his elbows on the tops of his knees.

"Coward!" Corinne spat at Peter.

"I don't even remember you," Peter told her, though the soft words seemed more meant for himself.

"Is it going to kill her?" Malia asked.

"We don't need to wait," Braeden insisted.

"Your sister was a coward too." Corinne sneered. "You were the only Hale I thought could understand strength, but I was wrong about you."

Peter frowned. He looked away from her to his hands.

"Peter," Malia pressed. "What did you do? Is she dying?"

"Understand strength?" Peter whispered to himself. Only Braeden's ears couldn't hear.

"You couldn't kill me alone, so you let these children do the work for you," Corinne accused.

Peter looked to Malia, Scott, and Stiles. His eyes grew wide, though not with surprise.

"Poison won't give you the power. You have to use your hands. I don't have a pack to pass it on to." Corinne taunted.

Peter said, "I've had that power before, and I wasn't stronger than I am now."

"Is there an antidote?" Scott asked.

Peter ignored him. "My nephew gave the power up once, and I never understood why he seemed happier without it."

"Peter! Is there an antidote?" Scott repeated, though he couldn't release Braeden.

"I don't have it," Peter answered.

"Can we get it?" Scott asked.

Peter shook his head. "We don't need it."

"Can we try?" Scott pressed.

Peter frowned. "As long as Corinne lives, Malia's life is in danger."

He stood and stepped forward, baring fang and claw.

"Do you want your power to live on?" he asked Corinne.

Corinne spat at his feet, though her body had begun to tremble.

"Do you want to carry it to the grave?" Peter asked.

"We swore to die together once," Corinne said.

"I don't believe you," Peter replied.

"You said you loved me."

"I lied."

"I know, but you were a good liar." She tried to move but collapsed even before Stiles shoved her down. "How long are you going to make me wait?"

Peter retracted his claws. "As long as it takes. You said I was weak because I couldn't kill you alone, but maybe I'm stronger because I didn't have to. I know she wants you dead, but I can't kill my daughter's mother in front of her." He took a step back and lifted his eyes to meet Scott's. "The poison isn't lethal, but it will keep her down for a few hours and slow her healing. And it's excruciating." He walked away and climbed the stairs leading to the roof.

Corinne summoned a surge of strength at that, but Stiles slammed her back down.

"Malia, don't," Scott pleaded as Malia grabbed Corinne's throat.

"Are you going to steal my power again, you leech?" Corinne spat.

"I don't need it any more than Peter," Malia hissed.

"I don't need it at all," Braeden said.

Stiles sneezed at the sudden cloud of powdered wolfsbane Braeden tossed into the air. Scott stumbled back from Braeden. She retrieved her gun, sauntered over to Corinne, and left a bullet in her brain before the shifters recovered.

"You didn't have to kill her." Scott's voice was hoarse from wolfsbane, but low and dangerous nonetheless.

"No," Braeden agreed, "but I chose to."

The others arrived too late.


	14. To Avenge Yourself

Only two chapters after this! I'm going to miss this fic when it's done, but on the plus side, I think I realized why my attempts to write the last part of Watchtower have all failed so far.

 **Chapter Fourteen: To Avenge Yourself**

 _Tuesday, December 30, 2014_

Stiles fit strangely into his father's house. It looked as he remembered, though details his enhanced vision caught now seemed surprises, like he'd once lived in a blur only now made clear. Every house had its own sounds, but Stiles' human ears had missed so many. He smelled spices and chocolate in the kitchen, stale whiskey in an unwashed glass, and his father's shampoo, all from the living room where he sat fidgeting on the couch. Beneath it all, he caught the faint scent of his mom's old perfume, hidden for years in his father's closet.

The house was just as he'd left it and entirely different from how he remembered it, though the change lay solely with him. The loft had been easier; the renovations made the differences less stark, or at least, less the fault of his transformation.

"I guess you couldn't put it off anymore," Noah said as he returned from the kitchen with a mug of hot chocolate in each hand.

It wasn't meant to rain or snow, but with clouds covering the sun, they could pretend the winter weather called for a warm treat.

"They were reasons, not excuses." Stiles accepted the mug from Noah's left hand. "No mini marshmallows?"

"I'm all out." Noah sat beside Stiles. "Just because it's a reason doesn't mean it can't be an excuse too."

"So you're out of marshmallows on purpose."

"They're not part of my diet."

"Lifestyle," Stiles corrected automatically.

"You know damn well that's just a word for a diet that never ends."

"You're supposed to exercise too, or something."

"I already did." Noah sighed. "Was it the bite or Fenris that made you want to stay away?"

"That can be both too." Stiles sipped at the hot chocolate. He missed having something to chew and the sticky sweetness of melted marshmallow.

"The way Lydia described it, this was self-defense, even if it wasn't the same as with Donovan."

"Donovan was an accident. I dropped the scaffolding, but I didn't know it would skewer him." Stiles took a long, uneven breath. "Somehow, just because I'd wanted him dead, I never let myself feel like it happened accidentally. Fenris was different. Worse."

"I saw him after you left."

Stiles nodded.

"Defense doesn't have to be an accident." Noah let silence sit between them a moment.

Stiles stared into his mug to avoid his father's eyes.

"What I saw, what you did, it looked like rage," Noah said when Stiles didn't.

Stiles nodded.

"It looked like he made you a monster, and so you showed him how monstrous you could be."

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut.

"Lydia called me on my cell, and Deaton has ways to dispose of supernatural... evidence. I didn't ask too much, but no one will know what you did." Noah set a hand against Stiles' shoulder and squeezed. "I know no one's assurances sat right with you because they didn't understand. But I do. He was rabid. What you did saved Lydia and everyone else he might have run into that night, but you did it to avenge yourself, not to save them."

Stiles waited for Noah to continue. He didn't want to admit aloud that it was true even though he'd refused everyone assurances that it wasn't.

"Son, do you believe something can be wrong and right at the same time?"

"I don't know."

"I helped destroy evidence. I broke the law," Noah said. "Does that mean the right thing to do is reveal to the world that monsters are real?"

"The ones who didn't react with fear and hatred would try to experiment on us," Stiles said.

"You don't think the world could handle it?"

Stiles shook his head.

"So hiding it is the right thing to do to protect supernatural innocents and anyone who would be caught in the crossfire when the whole world became hunters?"

"I guess."

"If it's wrong to destroy evidence and wrong to reveal the supernatural, what do I do?"

"You do what you think is right."

"I do what protects my son," Noah said. "Even if Donovan and Fenris weren't monsters, I would protect you, the law be damned."

"What if I was one of the bad guys?" Stiles asked. "Supernatural or not, what if I was out there murdering people because I just wanted to?"

"Protecting you can mean a lot of things. I would lock you up." Noah clenched his jaw against the thought of imprisoning his son. "But I would still try to save you."

"From what? Myself?"

"Yes."

Stiles shook his head.

"I love you, Stiles. I will always do everything in my power to protect you, whether than means covering for you or rehabilitating you or—"

"What if the only way to save me was to kill me?"

"We thought we were there once before, and Scott found another way."

Stiles nodded. No one had believed the nogitsune's host could be saved, no one but Scott and his pack. Even as he watched his other body crumble to ash, Stiles hadn't been sure he would survive. He found out he'd lived later, when he woke from the faint he fell into.

"And you don't think you need to save me from myself right now?" Stiles asked. "You said you saw Fenris."

"What is it you think I'm doing?" Noah asked.

Stiles shrugged.

"Do you think this is the first time I've seen something like that?" Noah asked.

"I know it's not."

"And I know you're thinking of the wrong cases. It didn't look like anything a monster had done."

"You _saw_ him."

"He was beaten with a bat, not shredded or torn apart." Noah set a hand on Stiles' shoulder when Stiles flinched. "Fight or flight sounds simple. Before you can think, your brain sends a signal to run or to attack. People don't realize how hard it is to turn that signal off."

"I had time, Dad."

"Time to realize he was dangerous and sick. Time for him to bite you. That's barely enough time to realize you couldn't run, and _that_ is enough to make you fight."

"Am I supposed to stop feeling guilty?"

"No."

"Then what are you trying to do right now?"

Noah sighed, a sad sound rather than a tired one. "You're right that you went too far, but you need to see why. Killing him was not the mistake."

"So I should have calmly taken him out back to shoot like a rabid dog?" Stiles spat. "Argent used to compare lycanthropy to rabies to excuse his family business."

"Argent told me about their code. Gerard and Kate corrupted it, but it was meant to target those like Fenris who posed a danger to innocent people, not someone like you who tries to protect them, even from yourself."

"The code doesn't give you a freebie, and even if someone decided to wave the first offense, this is my second."

"Neither of them was human, Stiles," Noah reminded him. "The hunters' code doesn't protect wendigos or werewolves, and certainly not ones actively trying to kill someone."

"I talked to Scott. He thinks I should have found another way."

Noah shook his head. "Maybe before he bit you, Lydia could have tried something, but you were helpless. Once he bit you, the situation was desperate. Scott wasn't there."

"I want there to have been another way," Stiles admitted.

"What's done is done. The important thing right now, is what you're going to do next time."

"Because there's always a next time," Stiles muttered.

"There is," Noah agreed. "But now you can do things humans can't. Now you're strong enough to hold them while they struggle, to make time enough that fight or flight never comes into it."

"What if I can't?"

"You'll do what you can," Noah assured him. "If it comes down to it, you'll do what you have to do."

After a long pause, Stiles whispered, "I just didn't want to be a werewolf, Dad."

"It doesn't change who you are."

"What if you're wrong?"

"Did Scott become a horrible monster?"

"No, but I'm not like Scott."

"You're more like him than you realize, and even if you weren't, you can lean on him when it's too hard to go on your own. He may be whatever a true alpha is, but he was bitten like you and can help you keep hold of who you are." Noah pulled Stiles into a hug, careful not to spill their drinks. "And even before him, you have me."

"What if there had been a way to stop Fenris?" Stiles asked. "What if the wolfsbane and mountain ash had worked?"

"Stiles, you would have trapped and taunted him. You never give up a good chance to snark."

"No, I mean what if I could have done anything else but killed him anyway because I wanted to?"

"You tried to help Scott instead of killing the Desert Wolf."

"So?"

"So, when you see any other option, you take it. If you could have stopped Fenris without killing him, you would have."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. You're the one who doesn't. Look at me." Noah waited. "Look at me, son." He tilted Stiles' chin so he looked Noah in the eyes. "You are a lot of things. A liar, a thief, and, yes, a killer. But so am I. So is Scott's father. So are some of your friends and my deputies. We try not to, but sometimes we don't have the power to stop them any other way. You face the darkness when it reaches you, but you never seek it out. It's not evil to do what needs to be done. The day you leave that behind and become as monstrous as you're afraid you are, I swear I will be the first to stop you. Until that day, son, I am so proud of you."

Stiles buried his face against his father's shirt and cried until it felt he'd emptied every ounce of pain into his tears, leaving him almost numb with a peaceful kind of emptiness he had rarely known.

"It's going to be okay, Stiles," Noah promised.

Stiles, finally moving from beneath a great, dark weight, believed him.

.

Stiles had composed himself before the others came over. No one had seen Peter since the day before, but Stiles believed he would be okay. Parrish arrived with a police report in one hand and an Americano in the other. Scott kept looking at the door like he expected Malia to walk through it. Lydia patted his arm but otherwise focused on Parrish as he explained what he'd found.

"It was a hiker who found Finch, and the deputy who responded to the call found Haigh nearby. They had been carried to the woods, but no one found the actual scene of the murder until Argent and I located their van a few blocks from the loft."

"She drove it there after killing the others?" Lydia asked.

"Looks like it. Deaton examined their setup and says the serum was still incomplete."

"What?" Scott asked. "Then how did the Desert Wolf get their power? Malia left her too weak to drain power with her claws, to keep this from happening."

"Did you think they finished it over a single weekend?" Stiles asked.

"Haigh showed signs of torture," Parrish said. "We think the Desert Wolf forced him to pass the power to her, and then she killed him and took the portion of the cure you sent back with Finch."

"Finch had already taken the cure," Lydia said. "She couldn't pass on her power."

"Once she had Haigh's power, the Desert Wolf didn't need Finch to pass it over willingly," Parrish explained.

"Can a werecoyote regularly become an alpha?" Stiles asked.

Parrish shrugged.

Scott considered the question a moment. "I don't know. It's never come up."

"Technically, she had more wolf power than coyote power at that point, didn't she?" Lydia asked.

"I don't know how any of this works," Parrish admitted. "Just that three more people are dead."

"I'd wanted to save Mrs. Finch," Scott muttered. "I want to save everyone, but I really thought I could convince her she was wrong, save more than her life. She died like everyone else."

"You can't save people from themselves," Parrish told him.

"She didn't kill herself," Scott argued.

"No," Parrish agreed, "but she chose to give power to a monster she knew would keep killing. It went differently than Finch planned, but I'd guess the Desert Wolf intended to take her partners out from the start."

Stiles said, "Finch didn't want to be a werewolf anymore. I can relate, but she went too far and trusted the wrong people."

Scott's shoulders slumped forward as he stared at the table. He didn't argue, but the battle between sour mourning and sharp guilt in his scent didn't ease either.

Stiles turned from his friend to push the conversation forward. "What about the van?"

"We moved the van away from the loft and altered just enough to make it looked like a drug lab," Parrish answered.

"What kind of drug?" Stiles asked.

"I... don't know. Deaton handled it, and we have to find it officially before a CSI from the station can examine it." Parrish frowned. "I burned the Desert Wolf. The loft is cleaned, mostly. The couch couldn't be saved, so I burned that too."

Noah scowled at his hands, no doubt pretending not to hear all the ways his deputy tampered with evidence to hide the supernatural. It needed to be done, but Noah had never seemed comfortable with it.

"How long ago were Finch and Haigh killed?" Lydia asked.

"Midday on the twenty-ninth. They were dead only hours before being found, and the Desert Wolf didn't waste time coming after Malia."

Lydia asked, "Was the Desert Wolf the only one who could have been traced to the loft?"

Parrish nodded. "None of this should lead back to the pack." He looked around the table for any other questions. Finding none, he grabbed his report and his Americano saying, "I better head back to the station then."

"I'll see you there in a bit," Noah said as he saw Parrish off.

Scott had his phone out when Stiles turned back.

Lydia peeked over Scott's shoulder and sighed. "She's probably with Peter."

Scott frowned. "I'm allowed to worry."

"She can take care of herself," Lydia reminded him.

"And I'm still allowed to worry." Scott put the phone away in his pocket though. "Cops are still searching the woods and city. We should be careful right now."

"I'm always careful," Peter said, though he wasn't in the room.

Stiles jumped out of his seat. "How?"

"Your senses aren't always on," Peter reminded him. "And I'm very practiced."

Now that Stiles was paying attention, he heard Peter out by the back fence. A second heartbeat accompanied Peter's. Malia.

"Why didn't you just come in?" Stiles asked. "You were invited."

"Malia didn't believe I could sneak up on you."

"You're still outside," Scott said, "so you didn't prove it."

"I'll keep that in mind in the future," Peter drawled.

Malia had already left him behind to cross the yard toward the back door.

"Peter?" Lydia guessed.

"And Malia," Stiles confirmed as he opened the door. "Peter gave them away because he's too dramatic to let a good line pass."

"It wasn't that good," Malia said as she sat by Lydia at the table.

Peter frowned, muttering, "It was perfect," as he closed the door behind him.

Lydia filled them in, but Stiles just watched Peter. Noah passed through the kitchen as he got ready for work and only looked mildly surprised at his new guests. He watched Stiles for a moment longer than necessary before continuing.

Once they were caught up, Lydia asked, "Have you spoken to Braeden?"

Malia shook her head. "She left."

"Just left?" Lydia asked. "I thought you were friends."

Malia shrugged. "I guess she had somewhere to be."

"She killed your mother and _left?"_ Scott growled.

"I wanted my mother dead," Malia reminded him.

"That doesn't change anything," Scott said.

"Braeden's not sentimental, and neither am I," Malia told him. "Don't worry about it."

Scott sighed, clearly still worried.

"You can drive me home," Malia stood, offering her hand to Scott.

He accepted, and they left together.

Lydia pursed her lips as she studied Stiles and Peter. Stiles shrugged at her. Peter smirked.

"I'll be out most of the night," Noah said, tugging on his coat. "Just call if you need anything."

"I will, Dad. Love you."

"Love you, kid." He kissed the top of Stiles' head like he did when Stiles was a child and headed out the door.

Into the quiet, Lydia asked, "So, are you two going to DC together? I need to know if Stiles is riding with me."

"We have over a week and a New Year's party before we have to cement travel plans." Stiles crossed his arms.

"Don't pout," Lydia said. "I was just curious."

"Another party," Peter grunted.

"Tomorrow night, yeah. It's kind of an annual thing." Stiles gesticulated more than strictly necessary, but it felt right. "I didn't mention it sooner because I figured I'd have to miss it."

"It's okay if you want to miss it," Peter said.

"I don't."

Peter sighed.

"Why don't you like New Year's?" Stiles asked.

"Stiles, it's just an excuse to drink and shoot fireworks," Peter answered.

Stiles frowned. Peter didn't drink, but fireworks were still—oh. "Because fire, right? And you burned. A few times now."

"It's different enough not to bother me, but elegantly put," Peter deadpanned.

Stiles winced. "I've never been accused of having tact."

"I do remember you ranting in public about dead baby day once," Lydia said as she stood. "I'm watching a movie with my mom tonight. Call me if anything evil happens."

Stiles gave a thumbs-up, but Lydia didn't wait to see it as she let herself out.

"She doesn't like me," Peter noted.

"Do you blame her?"

"Not at all."

Stiles focused on sound and scent to confirm they were alone before asking, "Why didn't you take Corinne's power?"

"I said why."

"You could have used Belasko's talons. I'm sure you could have gotten hold of them somehow if you wanted."

"There wasn't time for that."

"Peter, I obviously believe you're holding back here. Is there a reason you can't answer me?"

Peter shook his head. "Remember what I said about Derek? His older sister took after Talia, but I recognized a rage in Derek and taught him to harness it. In many ways, I saw myself in him. But he was happier after giving up the alpha spark. I've been trying to figure out why."

"Because he was a dick alpha?" Stiles suggested.

"Then I remembered what you said when I offered you the bite and realized Derek didn't want to be like me either. You both turned down power to become better people without it."

"Oh."

"I've never been shy about who I am, Stiles," Peter said wryly. "But in my mind, I've always been the alpha. Even when someone else held the power, I knew it should—and would—be mine. After I died, I never bothered to think that I might be someone new instead of the alpha again."

"Who do you want to be now?" Stiles asked.

"Malia's father," Peter answered immediately. After a moment, he added, "And your pack."

Stiles grabbed Peter for a hug. "What about for yourself?"

"What about wanting you isn't selfish?"

"This isn't because I messed with your memories, is it?"

Peter considered it a moment before answering slowly, "I don't think so."

"You're not sure?" Stiles pulled back in surprise. Peter seemed too calm to be uncertain.

"How can I be?" Peter shook his head. "But you didn't 'mess with' my memories. You brought one back. Just one."

"It seemed like an important one," Stiles said.

"Then it's one I shouldn't have been without in the first place."

Something about that still felt off to Stiles. He closed his eyes to think on it, trying to summon the memories Peter had given him.

"We watched it together," Stiles said. "I could have tainted the memory."

"It doesn't feel like you're there when I remember it now," Peter insisted.

"You know it wouldn't."

Peter sighed. "Fine, how did watching it make you feel?"

Comparing Peter's emotions now to Stiles' could reveal if he was echoing what Stiles felt when he accessed the memory.

Stiles bit his thumbnail rather than answer.

"I assume you don't want to tell me you felt pity for what was done to me." Peter's voice had taken a hard, mocking edge that Stiles recognized now as a defense mechanism. "Which is why I don't think the memory was affected."

"Peter, that's..." Stiles struggled for the right words. He failed. "What you should be checking for is whether you're suddenly convinced you overanalyze everything."

"You really think that?" Peter asked.

"How many reasons have you come up with for why I might since I said it?"

"Has it occurred to you I might under-analyze everything since I solved precisely zero percent of our recent dilemmas?"

"Your memory's fine," Stiles assured Peter. "And you did figure stuff out."

Peter studied Stiles a moment before allowing the tension to ease. "I like to enjoy myself," Peter said. "Eat good food, fill my apartment with expensive decor, tour distant places. That was all true before too, but something else always came first. The kids needed to be watched, the pack had a meeting coming up, I had work to do, I lost everyone, I had to avenge my family, I had to reconnect with my family." Peter shook his head. "Even when I tried to stay away from Beacon Hills, Malia kept calling me back, and I kept answering because I don't enjoy myself as much when I'm alone. I have the money to do whatever I want. What I've been missing is someone to do it with. That's why I want more than anything to be part of my daughter's life. That's why being with you could be more important to me than being the alpha."

Stiles said, "I didn't know you could be sweet."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "That's your response?"

"That, and I didn't leave you behind to join Scott's pack. You're here with me. You're not alone anymore."

"I'm not here for them," Peter said. "Just you and Malia."

"You like Scott," Stiles insisted. "That's why you pushed him to kill. It's very backwards, and a little insane, but so were you."

Peter rolled his eyes.

"I think you're even distantly fond of Liam. At the very least, you like that he's intimidated by you."

Peter scowled.

"See how annoying it is when people make you examine your feelings? This has been my entire winter break." Stiles sighed over the loss of so much self-deception.

"Fine," Peter said. "But since you're an alpha, I'm still telling everyone I'm part of your pack, not Scott's."

"I don't think anyone will mind that, honestly." Then Stiles asked, "Even with all that, are you okay in a pack that doesn't kill?"

Instead of answering, Peter asked, "You're determined to stay with Scott?"

"He's like a brother to me. He's not perfect, but neither am I." Stiles considered it a moment. "He might be a tiny bit more perfect than me, but that's probably just luck."

Peter shook his head. "I didn't kill Corinne, but I didn't decide never to kill again."

Stiles frowned. "I'm not really one to judge, am I?"

Peter smirked and mussed Stiles' hair, so Stiles grabbed Peter's hand to kiss his fingers before pulling Peter's arm around himself.


	15. A Spark

The final chapter should go up tomorrow or Thursday!

 **Chapter Fifteen: A Spark**

 _Wednesday, December 31, 2014_

Stiles collapsed more than sat on the Martins' couch beside Peter. It took all his superhuman reflexes not to spill the drinks he held in either hand.

"You were right," he said, handing Peter a solo cup filled with root beer.

"I know," he replied with absolute confidence. "What about?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. "This is way less fun when I'm sober. How do I get the booze wolfsbane, the boozebane? Wolfsbooze?"

"You find a seller. I don't know any."

"You know everyone." Stiles pouted. "You're holding out on me."

"You're under twenty-one."

"You're not my father, and I'm not ready to call you my daddy."

Peter choked and spent the next several seconds coughing while Stiles snickered.

"So you _can_ be embarrassed," Stiles mused.

"So can you," Peter warned.

Stiles shrugged.

Peter's eyes narrowed. "I know a species of wolfsbane that will make you act like a drunk with none of the benefits of feeling drunk and all the benefits of excruciating pain that you are unable to physically express because your body is too busy misinterpreting every command you give it."

"How many types of wolfsbane are there?" Stiles asked, trying to decide if he felt more incredulous or suspicious.

"Since people can breed new ones, we may never know. Hunters develop new hybrids on occasion to keep us from countering their attacks."

"Rude."

Peter nodded in general agreement.

Stiles asked, "What do you think are the chances of making me resistant to it again?"

"Without lethal side-effects?"

"Definitely without those."

"Low. Individuals and packs have tried various methods over the years, and none have turned out better than Finch's, even though I believe in this case wolfsbane resistance was an unintended side-effect, much like the lethality itself."

"Boo." Stiles pouted.

"You wouldn't be able to use wolfsbane to get drunk if it didn't affect you," Peter pointed out.

"You're not getting me any of the good stuff anyway."

Peter shrugged.

"You do feel normal again, right?" Stiles asked.

Deaton claimed their blood tests still looked good. Stiles definitely felt fine, but he hadn't noticed the differences before since he'd never been a normal werewolf before Fenris' bite poisoned him.

"Yes."

"Yeah, definitely don't elaborate or anything."

Peter basically rolled his whole head along with his eyes.

"Fine. Then tell me how you do the healing from alpha wounds thing."

"You haven't passed your full moon test yet."

"I also haven't injured you seriously in a while."

"You had to specify 'seriously.'"

Stiles grumbled something without putting much effort into making it sound like words.

"It's like stealing the power to heal and adding it to my own, except that I'm stealing it from myself at different times. It's neither normal nor 'safe.'" He used one hand to place finger quotes around the word. "But neither is being killed by a newly turned alpha."

"Could you have been killed if you were attacked during the times you stole your healing from?"

"Yes, which is why I never told anyone when I couldn't heal."

"We could have protected you."

"Or not. I don't take chances like that."

"You should at least have told Malia."

Peter shook his head.

"Who else knows you can do that?"

"No one, Stiles. And I can't, not normally."

"Then how did you?"

Peter shrugged.

"You're really not telling me?"

"The only way to keep a secret is to tell no one."

"You already told me the part about how it makes you vulnerable."

"That's more to explain why I won't be able to continue than anything else. It's an extreme measure for an extreme circumstance."

"You should have made Scott spar with me instead."

"Scott is too easy on you."

"You pulled your punches more than he did."

"I didn't mean physically."

Stiles frowned. "You mean he's too nice."

Peter nodded.

"He kicked me out of his pack," Stiles reminded Peter.

"Last time. This time, he felt he had to learn from that and forgave too easily."

"You never held what I did against me."

"Because I don't care."

"So why does it matter if he did?"

"It was harder to be honest with someone you thought was better than you." Peter sneered.

"I never thought he was better than me."

"More moral, then."

"I worried he'd do wrong by me, actually."

"I meant that he won't kill."

"I realized he's just been lucky."

A smirk began to form on Peter's lips.

"Do not dare end his lucky streak."

Peter sighed.

"There you are." Lydia stalked into the room. "I have been listening to Mason ramble about different cultural New Year's celebrations for fifteen minutes because you abandoned me, and I can't bring myself to be rude to him when he's so excited."

"You never had trouble ignoring _me."_

"Yes, I did. If I tried to walk away, you followed and kept talking."

"I meant before we were friends."

Peter asked Stiles, "Do your friends often walk away from you while you're speaking?"

Stiles waved a hand to dismiss the question and kept his attention on Lydia. "Was it interesting?"

"No. And now I'm going to _remember_ it all."

"Most people would envy your memory."

"They can look up whatever they need online." She crossed her arms. "Why are you two sitting in a room alone? This is a party."

"I'm not used to being sober at parties," Stiles complained.

"Most of the people here can't get drunk," Lydia reminded him. "I think you can handle it."

Lydia grabbed Stiles' arm to haul him to his feet and out the room. She ignored Peter, but Stiles didn't expect her to play nice with a man who had psychologically tortured her, no matter who Peter dated. Stiles made a face. _He_ knew Peter was different now because he'd literally felt it from within Peter's mind. No one else could, or likely ever would, experience Peter's thoughts as Stiles had.

"Are you hungry?" Lydia asked as she pulled Stiles down the hall.

"Always."

She detoured to the kitchen.

"I already ate," he reminded her.

Stiles had shoved his face before grabbing drinks for himself and Peter, though he'd rushed through it when he realized Mason was a talkative drunk searching for anyone to listen to him. Stiles' escape had left Lydia and Mason alone.

"You said you were hungry," Lydia reminded him.

"If I ate whenever I was hungry, I'd never stop."

She rolled her eyes, which seemed dismissive to Stiles.

The kitchen was empty now. Lydia glanced back as they entered, but Peter had stayed behind. She began pouring snacks noisily into serving bowls.

"You were so afraid." Lydia spoke softly, and Stiles doubted any but the most dedicated listener would catch her words over the noise she made as she moved through the kitchen.

Stiles turned on the sink faucet. He could tell what Lydia was trying to do, if not why.

"After Fenris bit you," she clarified. "You were angry too. Your dad and Scott kept focusing on that, like they thought that was why you... did what you did. But I was there."

"You think I was more scared than angry?" Stiles asked.

"I think you're brave so often that the others forget how terrified you are."

"What is this about, Lydia?"

"I know Scott, and I know your dad. I can guess that they've both already tried to tell you how it's okay that you were angry."

Stiles rolled his shoulder and resisted bringing his thumbnail to his teeth.

Lydia continued, "I haven't been alone with you, so I haven't been able to ask why you were so afraid of yourself."

"I'm not."

"You weren't afraid of Fenris. You tried to help him."

"He needed it."

"You weren't afraid of being poisoned either."

"I wasn't sure he could transmit it."

"But once you were bitten, you were terrified, so terrified that you destroyed him and ran away from me."

"I didn't want to hurt you."

"Why were you so convinced you could?" She turned away from a bowl of pretzels to look him in the eye. "Why are you so afraid of yourself?"

"I'm not as afraid as I was."

He'd used that fear to anchor him for a while, but its effect had faded more and more as the days passed. Stiles and Peter had plans to spar Thursday, and Stiles worried Peter would need the extra healing that he still wouldn't quite tell Stiles about.

"You've never seen yourself clearly," Lydia said.

"What's that supposed to mean? I'm _not_ as scared."

"I know. I..." She tapped her fingernails against the counter. "Before I got to know you, I thought you were sort of a joke. A lot of people did, but you never seemed to realize it."

"Wow, thanks."

She shook her head. "My point is you seem different from the outside."

"How is it you think I see myself?"

"I think you see everything through that darkness I helped you put around your heart."

"That's not how that works."

"Isn't it?"

"It's not all of who I am. It's just a little thing that... tugs at me sometimes."

"You're saying it _never_ wins?" Lydia pressed.

Stiles scowled. "I thought this was a party."

"Answer me, Stiles."

"You watched me lose. You begged me to stop."

"That wasn't a little thing tugging at you."

"Sure it was. There's just a hell of a lot of my own darkness ready to avalanche at the slightest provocation."

"That's what I mean," Lydia said. "You think you're made of darkness, but you aren't, Stiles. You're a good person. You make other people laugh. You save lives."

"I already had this conversation with my dad."

"I seriously doubt your father talked about supernatural darkness influencing you."

"No, but he went on about how I'm only a killer when it's less evil to be."

"Is that how he said it?"

Stiles crossed his arms. "No."

"And the way you feel right now, the thing that's making you argue with me, it's _not_ the darkness around your heart?"

It was. Stiles ground his teeth rather than admit it.

Lydia said, "People aren't simple, and the world isn't black and white. You accept that sometimes, and other times you don't. We both know that. You feel like you're truly monstrous sometimes, and other times you feel like everything you've ever done was justified. We both know that too."

"And why do we know so much?" Stiles asked. "Just you and me?"

"Not just us," Lydia said, "but I might be the best as seeing through your bullshit. You can lie to fool a werewolf or yourself, but not me."

"And I'm lying about being a monster?" Stiles asked.

"You're lying by saying anything about you changed on the night you were bitten."

"I literally became a werewolf."

"But you didn't become a different person."

"When did I claim to?"

"You didn't, not aloud, at least not to me."

"Oh, this is one of those self-lies you mentioned."

"Don't mock me, Stiles."

"I already had the heartest-felt of conversations with my dad. I felt better after."

"And how long did that last?"

"Right up until I got stuck talking to you."

"If you were angry at me, it wouldn't affect how you feel about yourself."

"I can multitask enough to be angry at many people simultaneously, even when one of them is you."

"Can you multitask enough to fall into one of these moods on a full moon without losing control?"

"Is _that_ what this is about?"

"I'm worried about you."

"You're always worried about me."

"Don't flatter yourself, Stiles. I have other concerns."

"Ooh, burn."

Lydia raised an eyebrow.

"We'll find out about the full moon thing in five days," Stiles said. "I haven't tried one yet, so I can't say hypothetically how I would handle it. Until then, I guess I'll just have to do my best not to leave any more messes for Deaton and Parrish to clean up."

"I know you don't just think Fenris was a mess you left behind."

"If you know so much, then why don't you tell me what my anchor is supposed to be? Everything I find fails after a while, and if it fails while I'm away from the pack, I'll definitely leave more than a mess behind."

Stiles' heartbeat echoed in his ears. He tried to tell himself Lydia hadn't wanted to make him angry but wound up thinking about how she knew every one of his buttons. If she'd wanted him calm, he would be.

"You're afraid now too," Lydia said. "Do you get angry without fear anymore?"

"Are we still talking about the darkness?" Stiles asked. "Because it's permanent. I can't overcome it. I can't banish it. I can't escape it. For all intents and purposes, it _is_ the outer edge of my heart, not a separate thing around it."

"Is that a 'no'?"

"Sure."

"You're not going to hurt me, Stiles."

"I did hurt you. I scratched you before I ran off that night."

"It's healed now."

"That's why we're having this conversation so late," Stiles realized. "You waited to be sure I wouldn't hurt you."

"We were busy dealing with magic poison and supernatural attacks," Lydia corrected. "You may not have noticed."

"It has only been two weeks, hasn't it?"

Lydia nodded. "Fifteen days."

"It feels longer."

"You almost got yourself killed too many times for so few days. If you were human, you'd still be hospitalized for the first one."

Stiles rubbed his neck where Fenris had bitten him. "Did you believe it? That I would hurt you?"

"If I scream, 'stop,' you don't have much choice but to listen as you fly backward."

"You know if I wanted to hurt you, I'd go for your throat first so you couldn't scream."

"I also know that will never happen."

"What if _you're_ evil?"

"I'm not, and the pack wouldn't let you be the one to go after me if I were, not with our history."

"You didn't really answer. Did you stay away just for me or because I could have hurt you?"

Between the attacks, guards, visitors, and rooming with Peter, Stiles had barely been alone with anyone since being bitten.

Lydia said, "You haven't passed your final test, but I'm with you anyway. I have never been afraid of you, only for you."

"I'm very scary," Stiles argued.

"Sure."

"As a human, I hit the merged twins with a baseball bat hard enough to shatter it. Do you know how much force that takes? I don't, but I assume it's a lot."

"Is that why you got a metal bat?"

"Shatter proof," Stiles confirmed.

"Have you tried it since you were bitten?"

"Do not spoil the metal bat for me, Lydia."

She sighed. "Did you notice when you became less hostile?"

"I'm not hostile."

"You were much angrier a few moments ago than you are now."

Stiles shrugged.

"Your brain interrupted your heart to consider the timeline since you were bitten, and the darkness lost its hold."

"Not every bad mood is The Darkness."

"Your natural emotions don't shift as quickly and with so little reason."

"So you're saying I should find a logic puzzle when I'm really upset?"

"It might not hurt, actually."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Why haven't we been interrupted?"

Lydia motioned to the sink and snacks.

"The sound of food should draw hungry young adults, not deter them."

"They also already ate."

"We both know that means nothing." Stiles shoved a handful of peanuts into his mouth and chewed loudly.

"I mentioned to the others that I wanted to speak with you and asked them to give us a few minutes."

"Schemer."

"I haven't gotten to talk to you enough. This hasn't been something I could help much with."

"Excuses," Stiles said with his mouth still full.

"I'm done now though, thanks." Lydia turned and waved as she marched out.

"Was it the peanuts?"

"Definitely." She turned the corner out of sight.

If Stiles wanted to, he could track her by his other senses. He grabbed his drink and an entire bowl of M&Ms and headed back to where he'd left Peter instead. Malia was with him, rolling her eyes at something he'd said. She leaned against the couch with one hand resting on the cushioned back while she stared down at Peter.

Rather than interrupt, Stiles turned away. He closed his eyes to find the others in the large house, but he wasn't the only one alone. Stiles brought his candy to where Scott had hidden himself in a guest room, sitting at the edge of the bed to stare at nothing. He didn't look up, so Stiles shoved the bowl of M&Ms under his nose.

"No thanks," Scott said.

Stiles set them on the dresser and sat beside Scott. He waited for Scott to say what was wrong or tell Stiles to leave. Scott furrowed his brow and ran a thumb over the palm of his other hand absently. His eyes pointed to his hands but without the focus to see them. He'd gotten his hair cut since Stiles saw him yesterday, but the longer portion rested in the uneven half-curls that said he hadn't styled it.

When he spoke, the words seemed ripped from Scott's throat. "I'm tired of them being right about me."

"Who?"

Scott shook his head. "I don't kill anyone myself, but they always end up dead anyway."

Stiles ran a hand through his hair, not sure what to say.

"Is it something I'm doing?" Scott asked.

"They would kill each other anyway," Stiles answered.

Most of the pack's enemies over the years had been killers long before they met Scott. Peter, Kate, Gerard, the alpha pack, the darach, the nogitsune, the Dread Doctors, The Beast, Garett Douglas, the Wild Hunt, the Anuk-Ite. They were killers, all for their own reasons.

Even the others, the ones who were lost, confused, or driven to kill after meeting Scott, made their own decisions, and Scott had no part in their vendettas except his drive to stop them. He was simply in the way.

Except for the ones the dormant nemeton held at bay.

Except for the ones an active nemeton drew in.

Except for Tamora Monroe. She blamed Scott for failing to save her when he recognized the Beast's slaughter as a trap. Scott kept a safe distance to save his own life and those of his friends, and Monroe saw him sacrificing her life to the Beast in exchange for his own.

It wasn't Scott's fault. He didn't create the Beast or force it to kill.

If Allison, Scott, and Stiles hadn't awakened the nemeton, their parents would have died. Did that mean what followed wasn't their fault, or that they chose their parents over the rest of Beacon Hills?

"How do I stop them?" Scott asked.

"If we knew that, we would have," Stiles said. "I think."

Scott turned from his hands, eyes coming into focus on Stiles' face. "You think?"

"If stopping everything that happened after had meant letting our parents die, could we have done it?"

"I don't know," Scott said. "If I knew what was coming, I would have tried to find another way."

"Killing ourselves is extreme even as a last resort, Scott. If there was another way, we would have done that instead."

Scott shook his head. "I feel like so much of our lives has been impossible decision after impossible decision."

"What if we let them die, and everything else happened anyway?"

"I just want to help people," Scott whispered.

"You helped Deucalion."

"Derek's the one who tricked Jennifer into healing him." Scott paused. "Deucalion's still dead."

"You saved him from what he had become. That's what you wish you could have done for all of them, isn't it?"

Scott nodded.

"Theo and Peter are reformed," Stiles said.

"I don't think that was me."

"It was mostly Liam and Malia," Stiles agreed, "but where do you think they learned it?" When Scott hesitated, Stiles continued, "I was a monster once too, not like a werewolf. A real monster. You saved me."

"I wasn't alone."

"But it was your voice that rebuilt me."

"I didn't notice it wasn't you. I didn't stop it from killing people."

"I didn't notice I wasn't me either." Stiles shook his head. "Sorry, that's not quite right. I'm used to talking about it like that."

"Like it was separate from you?"

Stiles nodded.

"What about when we suppressed it? You talked about stabbing me before, but Deaton found a way to give you back control. That wouldn't be possible if you didn't exist."

Stiles bit his thumbnail. "It was like... When I take Adderall, I don't stop being ADHD, but I can manage it better. The wolf lichen didn't stop me being the nogitsune, but I managed it better."

Scott considered that a moment and slowly asked, "You said I rebuilt you. Is that literal?"

"Sort of?" Stiles shrugged. "You didn't tear off the pieces of me and fit them together one by one, but I wouldn't be _me_ without you either."

"I don't understand."

Stiles thought it over before answering. "You created a spark within me that allowed me to become myself."

"And yourself, is it..." Scott trailed off, unable to finish the question.

"Is it the same, you mean? The self I was before?"

Scott nodded mutely.

"No."

Scott flinched.

"Not like that."

"Then how?"

"You aren't the same person you were before the nogitsune either. We change naturally, inevitably. I couldn't go back because the only path is forward." Stiles took Scott's hand. "I _am_ Stiles. I promise you, I am. I'm Stiles because of you, because you saved me."

Scott threw his arms around Stiles and dropped his head to Stiles' shoulder.

"I wish I could save everyone," Scott said.

"You can't."

"And I wish people would stop pretending they know me based only on the people I couldn't save. I tried. I wanted to. I failed. I didn't let them die. I didn't want them to die."

"I know."

"I shouldn't be complaining to you." Scott tried to pull away.

Stiles pressed Scott's head back to his shoulder. "We're brothers, Scott. You can tell me anything." After a pause, he added, "So long as it has nothing to do with sleeping with my ex."

"We could try convincing the universe you and Malia never dated," Scott suggested with a hoarse chuckle. "Might be better for both our relationships."

"A little bit," Stiles agreed. "But then I'd have to give up what I had with her, wouldn't I?"

"Not worth it," Scott acknowledged. He was quiet a long moment, resting his head against Stiles' shoulder. Then he asked softly, "Did it hurt?"

"When I became Stiles?"

Scott nodded.

"Yes. It hurt."

"I'm sorry."

"This, too, comes with pain."

"I don't want you to hurt anymore."

"I know."

Scott pulled back to say, "You should visit more. I miss you."

"I'll see what I can do."

Stiles only came home for winter and summer vacation since his home town was across the continent. He knew the others visited their parents and friends for spring and fall break, and on long weekends throughout the semester.

Malia pushed open the bedroom door. "Lydia's putting on a movie downstairs."

"Okay," Stiles said.

Malia waited a moment. "You're supposed to come watch."

"We'll be right there," Scott promised.

At the same time, Stiles asked, "What movie?"

"Snowpiercer. I don't know what it's about unless they stab snow. Is it a snowman movie?" She scrunched up her nose.

"I think it has a train and the guy who plays Captain America," Stiles said.

Scott sighed, but he stood and motioned for Stiles to follow suit.

The movie passed most of the time before midnight. Malia opened the champagne and seemed disappointed it didn't shoot the cork out harder or fizz more, but she poured a little out for everyone as Lydia distributed the glasses. Peter had lurked in the corner but found his way to Stiles' side in time for Lydia to hand Stiles two glasses without needing to even look at Peter.

Stiles handed Peter's glass over as he commented, "Smooth."

"I thought so."

"You two are always going to be this awkward," Stiles guessed.

Lydia was one of his best friends, and the one who lived closest to him now. While Stiles couldn't blame her for hating Peter, he still dreaded how uncomfortable her visits would be now if he kept dating Peter.

"You should have seen it when I asked her to find out about Malia. Lydia brought Allison along the threaten me, which she did very admirably. I was so proud when Lydia bribed me with Malia's name to help Scott save you from the nogitsune."

"I can't believe you were paid for that, you monster."

Peter shrugged with one shoulder. "I'd have done it anyway, but letting people believe that means I never get any presents."

The ball had dropped in time square hours ago, but the magic of modern technology allowed Natalie Martin to put the countdown on the TV anyway as she sipped from what was definitely not her first glass of wine. Noah stood awkwardly beside her, trying to help with nothing to do since Natalie had the presence of mind to ditch her heels with her sobriety.

Most of the pack had paired off, grinning beside the person they planned to kiss at midnight. Of those left single, only Liam seemed put out about it as he leaned against the wall pouting.

When the counter reached ten seconds, the pack counted down with it. Not Peter, because he hated fun, but everyone else. Melissa even pinched Argent's arm enough that he joined in at six.

Then it was midnight. The counter reached zero, the ball dropped, and it was 2015.

Peter held Stiles' jaw in place to kiss him and wrapped the arm holding his champagne behind Stiles' back to pull him closer.

When they stepped back to down their champagne, the look on Peter's face wasn't quite a smirk. His lips curved upward on both sides, for one. His eyebrows were in the wrong place, for another.

"Is that a smile?" Stiles asked.

"I don't know what that is," Peter lied. "Is it a kind of wine?"

"Narcotic, I'm afraid." Stiles laughed. "But it _is_ a smile."

Peter twisted the smile into a smirk, but Stiles kissed it back.


	16. I Am

This is it: the final chapter. Thank you so much for reading!

 **Chapter Sixteen: I Am**

 _Monday, January 5, 2015_

The full moon was tonight.

Stiles paced the loft. He remembered when Scott tried to kill him, and refused visitors lest he do the same. He remembered when Scott made out with Lydia behind his back and extended his isolation to last all day lest the moon inspire Stiles to be the dickest version of himself too. He'd even sent Peter away under the pretense of finding chains strong enough to hold Stiles, just in case. The icy glare Peter leveled at Stiles for that had been too knowing for comfort, but he'd gone.

The sun shone. Stiles squinted at it through the new pane of glass in the window and wished for clouds to block the light. He wished they would stay through the night to hide the moon. It wasn't hot out, but it was the warmest day since Stiles returned home, and the one he most wished would be cold. He missed the winter chill back home. Even knowing it for a lie, he kept thinking if it were cold, he wouldn't get so angry.

The moon's power tugged at him like the undertow beneath the waves. Rage boiled in his chest, and anxious energy sparked through his body. The ache of hunger burrowed deeper into his gut as the moon's influence pulled him under.

Stiles took a deep breath to steady himself.

Malia's footsteps caught his ears. She was downstairs still, on her way up.

"Go away," Stiles said, confident she was listening.

"No."

"I want to be alone."

"You're afraid. That's not the same."

Stiles snarled.

"You helped me," Malia insisted. "Now I'll help you."

"I helped you because I was your anchor. You're not mine."

"You helped Scott when Allison was his anchor. You helped Liam too." She moved quickly through the building and would reach the loft soon.

Stiles had noticed her too late to escape, and he had no where safer to go regardless.

"I don't want them here either."

"They aren't." She reached his floor.

"That's not the point."

"I know you've talked to Scott and Peter about your anchor, but they wouldn't tell me anything."

"Because it's private."

"I know. You were my anchor for a long time, even after we broke up, even after you didn't exist."

"You managed without me."

"I attacked a man at your grandfather's nursing home." She opened the loft door.

"I didn't say you flourished."

"I was confused about who should be my anchor when I started having feelings for Scott. It had always been you. I didn't know if it was because you were my boyfriend."

"You don't have to tell me this."

"Scott's not my anchor."

"I don't know what you're trying to say, Malia."

"Do you remember the first time I stayed myself through the full moon? You told me about being the nogitsune."

Stiles nodded.

"I thought about it while you were away. You said control was overrated, and it helped. Once I stopped trying to hang on, I knew I was already on solid ground because you were supporting me."

"Malia, did you just metaphor at me?"

"Don't." She flashed her eyes. "You meant you hated how control felt to the nogitsune, but it couldn't have done those things if _you_ stayed in control, right?"

"Sure."

Malia frowned. "What?"

"I told you before. I felt in control. _I_ did."

"You were the nogitsune," Malia agreed.

"I was _only_ the nogitsune."

"So?"

"What do you mean, 'so'?"

"So, you weren't Stiles, but that's why it was a problem."

"Wow." Stiles shook his head.

"You think I don't understand," Malia argued. "I do. You were the nogitsune. Now you're Stiles, but you weren't then. You forget, I never knew Stiles before the nogitsune."

"Oh." Stiles bit his lip.

"The nogitsune didn't erase Stiles."

"No, I... merged."

Malia nodded. "You didn't act like Stiles after. You acted like the nogitsune. It had control. The part that came from Stiles didn't."

"So maybe subsumed is a more accurate description than merged," Stiles mused.

"Does that mean control is good or bad?"

"Overrated; I told you before." Stiles scowled. "I know it's not worthless, but it's not enough on its own either."

"What else do you need?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"If control isn't enough, what is?"

"I don't know." Stiles threw his hands in the air. "Why are you bothering me with this?"

"When you answer that question, you find your anchor," she said.

"So you have an answer?"

She nodded.

"What is it?"

She shook her head. "Mine. Yours is different."

"I don't know what my anchor is supposed to be," he growled. "I didn't get one as a void monster."

"You have all day." She shifted her nails in claws. "And we'll stop you if we need to."

"I don't want any of you to get hurt. Except Theo. I'm okay with hurting him."

"You're strong. That doesn't mean you'll hurt us. We have more experience than you, and I never hurt you when you were human even though I was stronger."

That wasn't quite true, but Stiles let it stand. He didn't want to talk. "Are we done here?"

Malia shook her head again.

Stiles had struggled with his anchor over the past three weeks. At first, he had wanted to use something good and pure, like his love for his father or his drive to save lives. When that failed, he turned to darkness, fear, and monstrosity to keep himself in check. Stiles wasn't pure, and he wasn't evil. Those anchors might have worked for someone else, but Stiles needed an anchor that matched who he was.

When Scott was bitten, Stiles had been the human, the best friend, the—as much as it galled him to admit—sidekick. Then he became the nogitsune. Scott helped him become Stiles again, but had he really been human? The body Stiles was born in had turned to ash as he watched.

Was he human when he killed Donovan? Was he human when Fenris bit him? Was he human, a werewolf, or something else when he killed Fenris?

How was Stiles supposed to know who he was if he didn't know _what_ he was?

Malia stood beside him still, waiting with almost uncharacteristic patience. Then Stiles caught Scott's scent from downstairs.

"I'm not the only one who wants to help," Malia noted.

"Did you know he was coming?" Stiles demanded.

"No."

Stiles believed her.

"He probably wants to talk alone too," Malia said. "I'll be back to hold you down later."

She left without waiting for Stiles to insist she stay away. Even though she could still hear him, Stiles knew she wouldn't listen.

As soon as he entered the loft, Scott said, "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to give you this," and tossed over a dog bowl with Stiles' name on it.

"Just because I did it first doesn't mean you aren't an asshole." Stiles chucked the bowl at the garbage bin even though the lid was down. It bounced off and rolled along the floor.

"Are you ready for tonight?"  
"Not remotely."

"It could be worse," Scott offered.

"The bad guys could still be alive?"

"I was going to say tearing your friends to pieces is less embarrassing than running naked through the streets."

"So you do believe I might hurt you."

"No, but I believe it's what you're worrying about." Scott sat on the arm of the couch.

"I'm violent sometimes on my own. I don't know what I'll want to do under the full moon's influence."

"You'll probably want to fight and hunt. Power will pulse through your body in huge waves that make you feel like you can do anything, and you'll ride the wave straight over the common sense that usually tells you to stop."

"Oh." In hearing it, Stiles realize no one had described the full moon to him like this before.

"Peter said you've been struggling during training."

"Well, I was really hurt."

"You've had time to heal. You know what I mean."

"I don't know what my anchor is."

Scott nodded. "I struggled when I lost Allison. She was my anchor, and I didn't know how to control my power without her."

"But you found another anchor," Stiles noted.

Scott nodded. "My mom helped me realize that so long as I made other people my anchor, I would always be dependent on them and lost without them. She told me, 'Be your own anchor.'"

Stiles shook his head. "I want to be alone right now, Scott."

"I'm not sure you can afford to be alone," Scott said. "You need an anchor before tonight."

Stiles scowled. "If I don't figure it out, you all can stop me."

"But what about next month?" Scott asked.

"I don't know. Leave me alone."

"You don't have to do this alone."

"You just told me to be my own anchor, so which is it, Scott? Do I rely on myself or on you?"

"Just because I have an anchor doesn't mean I don't need support," Scott insisted.

"Stop being diplomatic and calm."

"I'm not going to let you start a fight with me," Scott said.

Stiles turned on his heel and slammed his fist into Scott's face. Scott flew backward and crashed into and through the dining table, leaving it in splintered chunks.

Scott wiped blood from his lip. "I won't fight you."

"Scottie, if you don't fight back, you're going to get your ass handed to you," Stiles scolded as he stalked forward.

Even Stiles didn't know what he hoped to gain by fighting. Maybe the moon was already affecting him, or maybe he just needed to vent. At least Scott was an alpha; he would be able to heal.

Scott stood, brushing off his jeans with one hand. "If you need to blow off steam, we can run or spar, but what you're trying to do is brawl."

"I punched you through a table. Why won't you get angry?" Stiles snarled.

"Practice, mostly," Scott said. "And I understand what's pushing you. You're a werewolf now, Stiles."

"You think I don't know that?"

"I think you know you're not human anymore, and you have a right to mourn what you lost. But you gained something too. You're a werewolf."

"Yeah, I have super werewolf powers. Good for me."

"I hated what Peter made me, remember?" Scott stepped forward and awaited Stiles' reaction.

Stiles slammed his fist into Scott's chest. The wall cracked under the force of the impact when Scott flew back, but it didn't give way.

Scott coughed and continued after he caught his breath, "I had to make peace with it eventually. I had to find the good in being a werewolf or spend the rest of my life hating myself for something I didn't choose."

"Yeah, we already mentioned power."

"No," Scott said. "I meant my pack. I was friends with you before, but even we changed after I was bitten. We fought side by side in a way we never would have otherwise because we would have believed everything was just animal attacks."

Stiles laughed, taken aback. Answering the confusion on Scott's face, Stiles asked, "You remember when I told you that you were a werewolf?"

"I didn't believe you." A rueful grin settled on Scott's face.

 _"You_ never would have figured it out if you weren't literally transforming into a monster at night. I think I would have."

"Shit," Scott muttered. "You're right."

"Even Jackson figured it out, maybe mostly because he hated you."

"He's very observant," Scott defended.

Stiles rolled his eyes. "He didn't notice when he became a kanima."

"He noticed something was off. He didn't like our explanation."

Stiles sighed and studied the damage he'd done. "I'm so lucky Derek's not in town."

"I think he'd understand," Scott assured him.

"He might wonder why I wrecked his place instead of Peter's."

"It was already a little wrecked, and Peter would _not_ understand."

"Good point."

"Are you still sleeping here?" Scott asked.

"I spent a few nights at my dad's, but I'm here tonight."

Scott nodded.

Stiles asked, "How much worse does it get?"

"It's still early in the day." Scott looked out the window at the bright sky. "So, a lot worse."

Stiles groaned.

"You stopped attacking me though," Scott pointed out.

"You distracted me."  
"That wasn't enough."

Stiles frowned thoughtfully. "Lydia said I can fight back my darkness by using my head instead of my heart for long enough to let the darkness recede. I laughed because of how clueless you can be."

"Compared to how clever you can be," Scott specified.

"Nah, you're really smart, dude, just... a little smitten at the time. Imagine how much sooner you'd have believed me if Allison wasn't so pretty." Stiles grinned but faltered when Scott didn't laugh.

"I don't always feel smart around some of you," Scott admitted.

"No one always feels smart around Lydia and Mason. They're human encyclopedias."

"What about you, Stiles?"

"I also sometimes feel dumb around them."

"I mean, they're smart because they retain information, but you do something else that even they can't."

"I..." Stiles remembered Lydia standing on a triggered bear trap with complete faith he could disarm it even though he couldn't read at the time. "I figure it out."

"You get it from your dad, right?"

Stiles nodded. "It's why he's so good at his job, at least when the answer isn't supernatural. Sometimes when it is too; he just hates it then."

Scott set a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "No matter what superpower you gain, that's always going to be your greatest ability."

"What about clairvoyance? 'Cause then I'd just magically know."

"You definitely know how to ruin a moment." Scott laughed. "I mean it though."

"Yeah, yeah. I may be Stiles the werewolf, but I'm also Stiles the guy who figures it out." He snickered. "You're trying to remind me who I am so I can use that to anchor myself. I see through you, McCall."

Scott spread his hands in feigned innocence but made no move to hide his mischievous grin. "I guess you figured me out too."

"Cute." Stiles rolled his eyes and turned his back on Scott to take a seat in the 'living room.'

"Oh, come on. I'm right, aren't I?" Scott sat on the coffee table facing Stiles.

Stiles sighed. "I don't know. I told you I'm Stiles. I know I'm right about that, but I don't know..." Stiles bit his lip. He'd told Scott so much already. This couldn't be worse. "You said I was mourning my humanity, but I don't know for sure that I was human anymore. I _seemed_ human, but so do Lydia and Theo sometimes."

"Lydia's immune to the bite, and you turned."

"The chimeras aren't immune. Hayden turned."

"What happened to them was scientific. What happened to you was supernatural." Scott leaned forward. "I can see auras, and yours looked normal again after we trapped the nogitsune. It looked human."

Stiles frowned, mulling that over. "The nogitsune fooled you."

"I know, but you turned. Even if something was different about you before, you're a werewolf now."

"You are right though," Stiles admitted. "I've focused on everything that's changed because that's what scares me."

"More of you is the same than is different," Scott told him.

"Are you saying eighty percent of my personality is still sarcasm?"

Scott grinned. "Closer to ninety."

"Excuse you, I've been using a great deal of general snark, not exclusively sarcasm, and I expect to be appreciated for the effort."

"You're right. I'm so sorry." Scott almost said it without laughing.

Stiles said, "I know being human was only a piece of me, more like a list of abilities and weaknesses than an identity. I can't be the guy who throws mountain ash anymore, but that was always secondary anyway."

"And we've got backups for that now," Scott added. "Not like when we were trying to trap the kanima."

"I'm sure Lydia will appreciate being called backup."

"No!" Scott threw up his hands defensively before that train of thought moved ahead. "She's definitely primary ash-thrower. I meant like Theo and my dad, people we might not call first but who are there if everyone else is turned to stone again."

Stiles chuckled.

Scott shook his head. "The worst part is Lydia wouldn't even yell or hit me. She would just make her disappointment _known."_

"Very known," Stiles agreed. "Worse than fighting, actually."

"You know you never told me why you broke up."

Stiles made a face. "You just didn't believe me. We couldn't make long-distance work. It's a pretty common issue, actually."

"I keep thinking it had to be something big to split you two, something monumental."

"You remember after Malia and I broke up?"

"You didn't even want to talk to each other."

"Not talking is also how we broke up, the reason and the method. I was hiding that I'd killed Donovan, and she was hiding her plan to kill her mom. We lied and avoided each other until we couldn't face each other anymore.

"We did talk once, when I went to tell my dad. She already knew. She figured me out and let it go because she didn't want to let out her own secret and didn't care what I'd done. I cared. We didn't talk it out. I just turned and went into the station, and we weren't together. Remembering that moment even now, it's like there's a crushing weight on my chest. I've had the monumental breakup before. I never want to feel that again."

"Sorry." Scott seemed at a loss for what to say.

"Don't be. When Lydia and I broke up, I got a flight to Cambridge on Friday after class. We spent Saturday just having fun around town. Sunday we made a huge lunch together and talked it out in her dorm. I gave her a kiss goodbye when she dropped me off at the airport that night, and I called her when I got home to let her know I made it safely. We never stopped talking or being friends. It barely even felt awkward, and I don't feel that pain when I think back to when we were together because it's less like we lost a relationship and more like we became friends again."

"You really didn't date anyone in DC afterward?"

"Why would I lie to you about that?"

Scott shrugged.

"I didn't date." Stiles rolled his eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me about the people you hooked up with?"

"Your relationships are always so heartfelt. How was I supposed to tell you I didn't remember the face of the guy I slept with, but his abs are in my memory forever. His name might have been Dave?"

"So, when I feel like Peter doesn't seem like your type, it's because my sample size is too small?"

"Yeah, that sounds accurate."

"You still could have told me. Aren't dudes supposed to brag?"

"We're not dudes. We're weredudes. Dudewolves?"

Scott tried not to laugh. He failed. But he tried, visibly. "This means you left our teen werewolf movie life in California to discover your new porno life in DC?"

"I like to think of it as a college AU."

"I almost understand what you're talking about."

"It means I had more fun than you."

"I have fun!"

"And a girlfriend," Stiles conceded. "But I was able to drink until now, and it was fun. Now I'll be boring like you."

Scott let the slight slide to focus on, "You're under twenty-one."

"Not according to my fake ID." Stiles scoffed.

"The son of a sheriff turned criminal." Scott shook his head in mock disappointment.

"That happened long before I went to college."

Scott shrugged. "Your drinking days are over in any case."

Stiles frowned. "And my boyfriend's a fuddy-duddy. Fine with murder. Against light drug and alcohol abuse."

"Are you going to give long-distance another try?"

"No." Stiles sighed. "I don't want to ultimatum at him, but I also won't go through that again."

"You know, when you're older, the age difference won't feel as big as now, so it might not be terrible if you took a break," Scott suggested.

Stiles scrunched his face up with distaste. "I don't like that idea either. What if one of us finds someone else and we miss our chance to screw it up on our own terms?"

"Sometimes it's hard to tell if you're joking."

"That's because sometimes jokes are too real."

"At least you don't seem to be having as much trouble with the moon."

"Jokes come from my brain and light-heart." After a moment, Stiles admitted, "Sarcasm might be a little bit darkness, but only a little."

Scott only grinned.

.

Stiles tried to run the others off as the sun set, but Peter, Scott, Malia, and Lydia refused to leave him in peace.

"We've been preparing for this since you were bitten," Lydia assured him.

They brought chains, mountain ash, and wolfsbane, but kept it all in reserve. They believed, or hoped, Stiles would manage on his own.

Stiles jittered and fidgeted with nerves. As the sky darkened, he grew more annoyed that the others refused to let him face the moon alone.

"Why don't you just chain me up and go?" he snarled.

"You're stronger than I was when chains held me," Malia pointed out. "You might break free."

"Then trap me in mountain ash."

Lydia said, "What if someone else came to let you out?"

Stiles snarled.

Lydia tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.

Peter sat on a dining chair across the room, though there was no new table yet. He crossed his arms and frowned.

"You have to do this," Scott told Stiles, "and we have to know you did. This won't be your last full moon."

"I am aware of that, Scott," Stiles growled.

"You're still afraid of hurting us," Lydia said.

"We can take care of ourselves," Malia reminded him.

"Your classmates in DC can't," Scott added.

"I _know."_ Stiles wanted to stomp away, but they would just follow.

Peter might not. He'd placed his chair as far from Stiles as possible. Had he heard what Stiles told Scott? Peter was stealthier than the rest of the pack, but would he have wanted to spy on Stiles throwing a fit long enough to stay for the end? Would he be hurt even if he had heard?

Stiles looked at his hands. "You all wouldn't have to worry so much if I just gave up the alpha spark. I couldn't do as much damage as a beta."

"You'd also be dead since a beta can't heal from as much damage," Lydia said.

Stiles conceded the point with a nod.

"Do you want to give it up?" Scott asked.

"I don't know what I want," Stiles admitted.

"You're my brother with or without it," Scott promised.

Stiles sighed. "I never wanted this kind of power, but now that I have it, it just feels so useful."

"It is," Scott agreed. "It's not the only thing that's useful, but it comes in handy."

"If you plan to keep throwing yourself headlong into danger, I think you'll need it," Lydia said.

"I did that as a human too," he reminded her.

"You did," she agreed.

"Oh, so you just meant I should keep it."

"Who would you even give it to?" she asked with a surreptitious glance at Peter.

"Doesn't matter if I keep it." Not Peter, he already knew, but Stiles didn't intend to break Peter's trust.

"You're avoiding the question, not answering it," Lydia pointed out.

Stiles shrugged, which didn't seem to placate her. He said, "I don't know anyone I could give it to who would have more of an idea what to do with it than I do. Scott is all of our alpha." He paused to consider the next words before he let them out. "But he's in California, and I won't be."

This time, Lydia nodded with more understanding in her eyes than Stiles had expected.

"You're talking about more than college," Scott said.

"I'm not harassing the FBI for nothing."

Stiles expected Scott to be hurt, but he smiled and offered Stiles his hand. When Stiles took it, Scott tugged him into a hug.

"You're still my brother," Scott said.

Stiles returned the hug. "I better be."

They didn't stop being pack. Stiles didn't know if that bond would last despite the distance or fade over time. Regardless, they would always be family, even if not by blood or pack bond.

"There is one other thing I should probably have told you," Stiles said. "Maybe all of you."

Scott waited expectantly with a hand still on Stiles' shoulder. The others watched without approaching or pushing for him to hurry.

"It's been over three years now, and I never really told anyone... Theo knows, but he knew from the start." Stiles shook his head to clear it.

Scott's brows furrowed, but he showed no other sign of concern.

Stiles took a deep breath and plunged in. "I'm not sure if Peter and Lydia know, but I wasn't possessed by the nogitsune. I became part of it. I don't know if I'm returned to my old self or a new version built from salvaged scraps of the original. I only know that I'm Stiles."

Peter tiled his head thoughtfully. Lydia finally looked surprised.

Stiles said, "I'm not the nogitsune anymore. We were separated, and it's gone. The void is not."

Scott's hand tensed on his shoulder.

"I don't know if that means anything as a werewolf," Stiles continued. "I still feel it. The moon makes it stronger, just like it makes my emotions and the darkness around my heart stronger."

"Does it... do anything?" Scott asked.

"It makes me hungry."

"Do _you_ do anything with it?"

"No."

"It's just a feeling?"

"Yes."

"Are..." Scott hesitated. "Are you sure it's real?"

"What?"

"The void that you feel. Is it the real void, or one you feel because something terrible happened to you?"

"You mean is it my imagination?"

Lydia stepped forward. "That's not what he said."

"It's what he meant." Stiles sighed. "You're confused because I don't use it like I did before, but that's _because_ I remember what happens if I feed the hunger."

Lydia's eyes widened with realization.

Malia frowned. "Were we supposed to think Stiles was back to the same as before the nogitsune?"

"Yes?" Stiles guessed.

Malia crossed her arms and glared at Scott. "You told me he crawled out of a pile of bandages the nogitsune puked onto the floor."

"He did," Scott confirmed.

"So he's in a new body."

"Oh shit," Peter muttered from his corner.

Malia continued, "So he's different."

"You didn't think to point that out sooner?" Lydia asked Malia.

"I thought you knew." Malia shrugged with her arms still crossed.

"Apparently, we've been willfully blind," Lydia admitted before adding to Stiles, "It didn't stop you from turning."

Stiles nodded as Scott gave him a grin. Stiles waved Scott's smug face back.

"So it's nothing to worry about?" Stiles asked.

"So I think we can handle it," Lydia replied.

Not the same, but it would do.

Lydia continued, "The nogitsune described it's hunger to me, so I know it's a lot. Let us know when it gets hard."

Stiles nodded.

Scott switched to an encouraging smile. Malia looked confused that this was not already the status quo.

Peter still sat in his chair against the wall, though a trademark smirk had reached his lips. So he wasn't worried.

Malia said, "You haven't attacked us yet."

Stiles looked out the window to see the full moon hanging in the night sky. "I did, just Scott and I were alone at the time."

She ignored that to ask, "Did you answer my question?"

"Question?" Scott asked.

Malia gave him a deadpan stare. "Stiles knows."

"Private. Sorry." Scott winced, but turned to hear Stiles' answer just the same.

Stiles chewed at his thumbnail. These were the people closest to him, the ones he could afford to share with. He had literally just told them his greatest secret.

 _If control isn't enough, what is?_

In the past three weeks, Stiles had failed at this so many times already. How did Malia expect him to conjure an anchor at the last moment? Only hours had passed since she first asked him.

 _You hated how control felt to the nogitsune, but it couldn't have done those things if_ you _stayed in control._

On the night Stiles turned, Peter describe an anchor differently than Stiles understood it before.

 _It needs to be something that reminds you of who you are, not what you can do._

That was why his anchors failed. Saving people, hurting people, both were things he did, not who he was.

 _Become who you are._

Stiles already had. When Scott howled for him, planting the spark that let Stiles become himself. The nogitsune hadn't erased him, but Scott hadn't rebuilt him either. Stiles had to do that himself. Stiles was the one who figured it out. He was the only one who could figure himself out.

 _Be your own anchor._

"If control is not enough, I am," Stiles said. "I'm enough."

The tension didn't fade, exactly, but it stopped pushing him, like his anchor finally found purchase and stopped the waves from carrying his ship out to sea. It felt sturdier than those he'd tried before.

Peter sighed in relief. The sound was soft, but Stiles felt it in his chest like the bass beat at a live concert, like the beat of his own heart.

.

Though Stiles anchored himself against the full moon's influence, Scott, Lydia, Malia, and Peter stayed the full night at his side. When the former three left in the morning, Stiles pretended to sleep through it where he had passed out on the edge of Derek's bed.

"I don't think you fooled them," Peter said. "I get the feeling they want us to talk."

Stiles opened one eye. "Lydia just wants to know if I'm riding with her."

"That's not all she wants," Peter said.

"I'm not going to force her—"

"I don't want you to," Peter interrupted. "I know what I did to her. I wouldn't take it back, so I can't ask for her forgiveness."

Stiles nodded. Peter had bitten and hospitalized Lydia, but that was the least harmful aspect of what he did. He tormented her mentally with visions, threats, and commands. He forced her to poison her friends and revive a monster.

The monster had been himself, but the point stood.

"You wouldn't take it back because then you'd be dead, right?" Stiles asked.

"Obviously."

Stiles nodded. Interrogating Peter now would serve little purpose. He had still been insane, but even that was an excuse. What mattered for Stiles was that Peter had changed, and he was willing to respect the distance Lydia needed between them. She worked with Peter when it mattered, and that was all they could ask.

Stiles fidgeted with the sleeve of his hoodie. "I passed my full moon test."

"We're all very proud," Peter drawled.

"I mean, tell me how you healed!"

"Oh, tea. Did you really believe I drank that much purple reishi?"

"I'm an idiot."

"You were distracted."

"A distracted idiot." Stiles shook his head. "How many kinds of magic tea do you have?"

"As many as can be useful to me."

"This is why people don't like you."

"And here I thought it was the murder."

"Fine, both."

Peter managed to smirk and sigh at the same time. "You may have noticed I drank hot tea primarily when we had company. Those were the times I siphoned healing."

"You know I _didn't_ notice because I'm a distracted idiot."

"At least you're pretty, dear."

Stiles hated that he blushed almost as much as the smug look on Peter's face when he did.

"Sooooo," Stiles said, drawing out the word as he willed his face back to normal. "What should I tell Lydia?"

Peter shoved Stiles' feet from the bed to make room for himself. "This town has always been both a safe haven and a pit trap. I come back because my daughter does, but I can do so as a visitor as easily as a resident."

"You're willing to move."

"You needed time to think," Peter reminded him.

Stiles nodded.

"Have you?" Peter pressed.

Stiles nodded again.

Peter raised an eyebrow, the only sign of impatience he allowed.

"What if we don't work out?" Stiles asked. "Do you just come back here?"

"It is a habit I've fallen into."

"And us? I'm friends with my exes, but you almost killed yours not long ago."

Peter rolled his eyes with more levity than the question warranted. "You must know me well enough to realize that was because she came after Malia."

"That wasn't quite an answer," Stiles muttered.

"I don't have one."

Stiles nodded, though a sigh escaped him despite himself. Peter was older than Stiles, but his emotions had been twisted to such an extent that he probably never had a normal relationship to hold up as an example.

Stiles asked, "And what if we do work out?"

"I suspect we discuss that as it occurs. For now, we only need to know if I'm going to DC. We're dating, not married."

Stiles didn't want to admit how much that reassured him, but Peter must have read it on his face.

Peter took his hand. "If we stay together, there will come a time when I'll want you to be mine, and _then_ you can decide. But not yet."

"You're talking awfully reasonably." Stiles frowned. "You're saying what you think I want to hear so I'll agree to stay together."

Peter shrugged.

Stiles snatched his hand away from Peter. "I want to know how you feel, not to be coddled and manipulated."

"I want to go with you. I want _you."_ Peter's eyes burned unnaturally blue with the force of his emotion. "I don't want to wait for you."

Stiles felt his eyes widen in recognition. "So if you don't go to DC, we're through?"

"I avoided those words intentionally."

Stiles laughed, though it left Peter looking more than a little taken aback.

Stifling his humor before Peter stormed out, Stiles managed to say, "I want that too. I refuse to date long distance. It's for stronger people than me."

"I can't fool you enough to lie, and when I stop trying, you agree entirely." The trademark smirk bloomed on Peter's lips. "I daresay we may be nearly perfect for each other."

Stiles returned the smirk with a wild grin. "Come home with me and find out."

"I think I will."

Peter pulled Stiles forward into a kiss that lasted through Stiles pushing him back to lie on the bed.

After some time, Stiles admitted, "When I told you I couldn't say I loved you back..."

"I'm patient," Peter said before Stiles mustered the courage to finish his sentence. "I can wait."

Stiles said. "I wasn't ready because caring about you is confusing, not because I don't."

"Wasn't? Past tense?" Peter asked.

"You're still confusing." Stiles grinned. "But that's part of what I love about you."

Peter lacked the decency to smile instead of smirk, but honestly, Stiles loved that too.

It was late before Stiles told Lydia she could drive back east on her own while he caught a flight with Peter, and nearly a year before he left his dorm roommate behind for Peter's apartment.

The pack bond with Scott and the others faded over time but never broke. It pulsed with renewed energy on holiday trips to Beacon Hills and when Peter and Stiles answered Scott's occasional call for backup. The stronger link remained Stiles' bond with Peter. It grew through hearts once encased in darkness and madness as they grew closer, and stronger, together.


End file.
